Lost: The 21st Hunger Games
by kopycat101
Summary: The Head Gamemaker and President strive for an even better Hunger Games this year that would surpass the last. But will the Tributes be as receptive to this amazing Arena, or will they lose themselves amongst the confusing labyrinth, stuck amongst its depths? (SYOT. CLOSED.)
1. Prologue: The 20th Victor

**AN**: So I finally broke down and decided to make an SYOT, after 3 years of wanting to create one. I've been particularly itching to write one in the past few months, which manifested me in submitting tributes to a crapload of SYOTS.

Anyways. Winter break is in a week, and it's the longest span of time I'll have to write this thing, other than summer break. So _by next week, I hope to have enough tributes to start this thing_.

Anyways, here's a prologue to show my writing style, and setting up for this fic.

**Edit**: Hohohoooooly shit, I got flooded with forms in just 3 days, submissions CLOSED unless I pm someone for an exception

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><p><span>Prologue: The 20th Victor<span>

**Marcus 'Tact' Gnaeus, Victor of the 1****st**** Annual Hunger Games, D2**

He was supposed to be retired. He shouldn't be dragged to the Capitol any more.

But The Capitol just didn't seem to understand that. They didn't seem to catch on to the distinct fact that he no longer wanted to be dragged out of his hole of self-loathing and mental torture.

And Marcus wasn't exactly the most tactful of people. It was the 'kinder' reason why his nickname was Tact. (The other being that he was called that by fellow war veterans in his District, for his tactical plans.)

But then again, perhaps the Capitolites didn't seem to get the message because he was the most stiff and respectful Victor to the Capitol. Habits were hard to break, after all. In his youth, he was a child soldier, fighting against the Rebels. When he was 18, he became the first Victor of the Hunger Games, doing everything for the Capitol, loved and adored by them.

Perhaps this is part of his everlasting punishment for his sins. Even when District 2 held three Victors—held another to take his place in Mentoring for the rest of his miserable life—he was still dragged back to the Capitol.

Perhaps that's what would happen, every time the Hunger Games held an anniversary. For now, it's for two decades. Next, it will be for two dozen. Then the 25th. Then for three decades. And on and on it'll go. Until the day he dies.

There's no escaping for him. That option was long lost to him, ever since he was Reaped.

No, even before that. When he illegally enlisted himself, all those years ago. When he fought and killed and rose up the ranks quickly. That had captured the interest of President White, enough to have his name rigged into the bowl, so he could kill the Rebel Tributes in the Arena. That's what damned him.

But Marcus found time to slip away from the bustle and interviews and constant attention from the Capitol. He ended up inside Victor Sirona's room—the woman who won the Games the year after him—and comforted her over her Tributes' deaths.

They comforted each other, held each other, lying on her bed. They always held a very strong relationship, a concrete understanding. They were the first two Victors, and the only ones who couldn't properly move on from their sins—until Red won the 7th Annual Hunger Games. But even by then, Marcus and Sirona were inseparable companions.

Just companions. They held no romantic inclinations towards one another, too hollow to love.

The two woke up at some vaguely proper hour in the morning, and went down together to check up on the other Victors. The Victors held their own special floor, where they could stay to monitor the Games and their Tributes. It held a manned bar that served alcohol and strong coffee, and a kitchen that produced any convenient meal they desired.

No one questioned Marcus' presence, when he entered alongside Sirona, despite his retired status. They all knew he was dragged here to the Capitol, constantly bombarded with interviews.

The majority of the Victors in the room watched the screens projecting the Games in silence. It seems like they were nearing the end—only three kids left. The Career boy from 1, the girl from 9, and the young boy from 10. This year, either Niveus or Buddy will finally gain a fellow Victor so they won't be alone. That, or Angel and Mediah's efforts on the intense training they offered District 1 children will finally bear fruit.

They watched as the Career boy finally found the young, sludge-covered boy hiding in a section of the swamp. A chase soon ensued, where the younger boy expertly weaved around the dangers of the swamp. However, the older boy had grander stamina, and was gaining.

Then the younger boy finally veered out into the more obviously dangerous part of the Arena—the area of erupting geysers. But the 10 boy miscalculated—and stepped right onto a geyser that barely erupted under his feet.

Buddy cried out loudly in dismay, staring horrified at the large screens. Some of the others patted the lone Victor from 10 on the back, murmuring condolences.

Marcus' eyes narrowed, however, as he kept watching the geysers.

"He's alive," he stated. "There wasn't a cannon."

"But no one could survive that!" Woof exclaimed; as always, he held no filter when he spoke.

"No, Marcus is right," Niveus spoke, eyes narrowed suspiciously, as he finally took his gaze off of his Tribute's progress. "See that shadow, down there?" he said, jabbing a long finger at a small mass by the base of the geyser that had seemingly killed the young 10 boy.

"Oh my Lord," Buddy uttered, looking torn, as if he didn't know what to feel on his Tribute barely surviving the boiling-hot geyser.

"He won't last long, though," Red spoke up quietly. "I assume that he's barely alive."

"Red's right…The injuries the poor boy would've sustained…He's barely holding on," Sirona inputted, staring at pity at the screen.

Everyone's attention—minus Buddy and a morbidly curious Marcus— then shifted away from the young 10 boy, who would likely die from the pain soon. The room stared at the confrontation that the 1 boy and 9 girl were about to have.

"This'll be our year…!" Angel chimed giddily, a large, excitable smile on her face.

"He's been one of our few fully-trained students that we've had," her husband and fellow Victor, Mediah, said. He rubbed calming circles on her back with one hand.

Oddly enough, despite her weaker state and build, the girl caught the boy off-guard. She threw a canister of swamp gunk at his eyes, and then pounced when he was distracted. Smart. After a large struggle, she managed to finally slit his throat.

But no announcement came.

The young boy had survived, just as Marcus had stated.

Niveus and Buddy stared enraptured at the screens, tense. Buddy, over the probable death of his poor, suffering Tribute. Niveus, over the almost miraculous event of being able to save someone, despite all the blood on his hands.

The girl trekked slowly through the plateaus, wary. As she neared the geysers, something unexpected happened—at least, unexpected to the girl, and all those who hadn't been watching for the other boy.

From a small niche in the geyser-spewing plateau, jumped out a small figure, right behind her. It was the boy who had stepped on the geyser earlier. His entire body was gruesomely twisted and burned.

The boy lunged at the girl, whose back was turned. He stabbed her with a sharpened rock, and using the momentum, shoved her into an awaiting geyser.

The entire room was tense and dead-silent, the only sound coming from the broadcast, in the form of a loud boom of a canon.

"With an **incredible** finale, Tazmithius Emerald is the Victor of the 20th Annual Hunger Games!" crowed the announcer.

"Holy **shit**, that was unexpected," Woof commented in an awed whisper.

"Victor…Taz… He survived… I finally…Almost two decades…" Buddy muttered, shocked and incoherent. Marcus didn't blame him—he had felt a similar way when Riyo finally won the 14th Games, and he wasn't alone any longer as the lone Victor from District 2.

The entire room watched as the hovercraft gently lifted the newest Victor, who was smiling like a loon. Marcus noted that it looked nightmarish, considering how his entire face was black and red and twisted.

The broadcast kept rolling, instead of cutting off, like expected. The 20th Victor told the attendants in the hovercraft he wanted to keep some semi-healed scars on his body, maybe on his arms and legs. He said this with a polite please and thank you, and even a bright smile that stretching his cracking skin, to boot.

Then the boy's vibrant green eyes rolled to the back of his head. The adrenaline most likely ran its course, and he finally passed out from his injuries. Those on the craft were frantic, trying to get the burned boy on a gurney and shipped to an emergency room.

The broadcast ended with the doors of the large emergency room on the hovercraft shutting, cutting off the frantic orders of the doctors and surgeons inside.

Buddy stood abruptly, eyes glazed, mouth agape, his entire being quivering.

"Go to him. See if he's getting the proper treatment," Red stated, voice logical and sympathetic, as he took the usually sunny man by the shoulders and gently led him towards the door.

Halfway to the door, Buddy finally snapped out of his reverie. "Taz!" he exclaimed, as he bolted out towards the elevator in a frenzy.

The tenseness shattered, and the Victors finally went around, talking amongst themselves. Red and Sirona put their heads together, talking over Taz's injuries, trying to think of how the Capitol doctors would treat him. Those that created the training academies and cemented the still-recent phenomena of Careers grouped together—minus Mags and Marcus, who both went to give emotional support to Niveus.

After all, Niveus went a decade working by himself, and just had the opportunity of a partner yanked from him. District 9 had rarely had any Tributes reach the finale, even including himself into the statistics.

There was also the fact that Marcus felt him and Niveus to be very similar. They both became absolute monsters, never forgetting their sins, always wallowing in their destructive thoughts in near isolation.

But before he went and spoke with the devastated man, Marcus noted that amongst all the discussion stood the previous year's winner, alone, staring at the exit.

"I guess I've finally got someone younger than me around here, for next year," Homini Laridge, Victor of the 19th Annual Hunger Games, noted. She gave a small grin. "Congrats, kid. You're the 20th Victor."

Marcus wasn't sure if he would be congratulating Taz as well. But he **did** commend the boy for keeping a physical reminder of his time in the Arena, of the horrors he underwent.

So, he supposes… Congratulations for being the 20th Victor, Tazmithius Emerald.


	2. Prologue: Newbie (plus Tribute List)

**AN**: _We have our official Tribute list_! SO EXCITING, GUYS

I had to be annoying and prod some people to get their forms in, who had reserved spots, but...Wow, I never imagined to get a full roster in less than a week! 2 and 1/2 days to get a flood of submissions/reservations. Yeesh, that was awesome.

So I know most of you are going to scroll down to the list, but I hope you at least look this chapter over, because it introduces _Gamemakers_. Probably not as cool as other Gamemakers in other stories, but still. They're my little brain babies :D

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><p>Prologue: Newbie<p>

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><p><strong>Jayel Valiance, 24, Gamemaker<strong>

A blue-haired woman paced back and forth in front of the crisply-cut, glass doors of one of the Gamemakers Meeting Rooms.

She was nervous; it was plain to see, in her dumpy frame, full of spastic energy. Her rounded face wasn't its usual blank calmness, and her eyes continuously flickered to the cold, imposing doors.

The youthful woman was used to glass doors, having worked as a technician for the Hunger Games, always passing through the entrance of the Launch Room. However, this particular set of doors she was pacing in front of was always barred from her, before today.

Jayel Valiance was a Gamemaker. She went from intern, to secretary, then assistant, then technician, to finally Head Technician.

And now, she was bumped up into the role of Gamemaker.

Finally, she had a chance to have her ideas realized, a seat on the Board. Finally, she held an important, interesting, well-paying role. And she managed to get here at 24 years old, one of the youngest Gamemakers so far.

However, it was her first day, and she was a bundle of nerves. And Jayel never had the greatest confidence when she was a bundle of nerves.

The woman suddenly stopped, her polished boots squeaking suddenly and obnoxiously on the shining tile. With a deep breath, she steeled herself, firmly turning to face the looming doors. She strode forwards to grip the metal handle—

And promptly yelped, at the sudden shock she felt.

"Damn you, static electricity!" she hissed angrily under her breath, her left eye twitching. She never liked touching metal objects suddenly, especially door handles, because of static—and she was proven right to dislike it so vehemently.

Taking a tentative grip on the handle once more, Jayel pulled the door towards her, stepping inside.

The room seemed like it had an even higher ceiling than the hallway. Which made no sense, especially if one considered the building's floor layout. It held an impressive, intricate pattern of glasswork, grand chandeliers blooming and dripping from above as if the crystals were snowflakes.

Inside, dominating the room itself, was a polished oval table of solid varnished oak. Placed around said table were various luxurious, plush leather chairs that looked to cost more than what she made a year altogether. Also, Jayel noted that the room was covered in tacky paintings and plotted plants and old vases; generally, with things that looked liable to break at merely a glance.

For just a Meeting Room, it was extravagant and unnecessary. The woman actually considered that it would be plainer. Really, what use were the portraits and exotic ferns in the room, anyways? Move those to a foyer or something.

_Millionaires_.

The woman blinked her golden eyes, her attention zoning back into the issue at hand—her fellow Gamemakers. Her fellow coworkers now, lest she get kicked off the Gamemakers Committee somehow…

Her eyes snapped quickly to the most well-known person there. At the head of the large oval table sat an old, wizened man, in his early seventies.

The Head Gamemaker, Krius Takami.

The only Gamemaker from the original Hunger Games Committee left. One of the men who was there to help brainstorm the very idea of the Games, who helped initiate, organize it, plan it, **make** it. One of the few old politicians left, after the War and assassination attempts and sudden disappearances that cropped up when politicians in Panem retired.

Jayel Valiance held the utmost respect for him.

Then, the spell was broken by the others in the room.

"Who the fuck are you?" asked one woman, who held a nail file in her hand.

"Heeeeeey, it's a newbie!" chirped up another Gamemaker, a bright smile unfurling on their face.

"**Another** new one…?" one grumbled.

"Poor girl," muttered another under their breath.

Jayel froze, the entire room staring at her. An entire room of mostly frivolous, rich Capitolites that she questioned the worth ethics of.

But the weight of their stares was unnerving, nonetheless.

Wrangling her nerves under control, Jayel gave a faint smile, and spoke. "Hello, I'm a new Gamemaker. My name is Jayel Valiance. It's a pleasure to work with you all," she said, giving a bow to the room.

"Welcome. You should sit," a man with a deep voice uttered on the Head Gamemaker's left side, jerking his head towards the table. Jayel stared. He was covered in tattoos—or where those scars?—and he looked rather terrifying.

"Hey, newbie, you can sit next to me!" one of the Gamemakers piped up—the one who smiled brightly and called her a newbie earlier. It was hard to tell their gender, but they seemed nice, if a bit loud and…bright.

God, their hair was a bright shade of platinum-blonde that hurt to look at. And they were completely covered in glitter. Wait, were those precious gems in their clothes…?

Looking around tentatively, seeing that no one else was offering—or even held an open seat next to them—Jayel padded towards the seat that the platinum-blonde offered, sitting down.

"I'm Adrian, nice to meet ya!" the shiny blonde—Adrian—said loudly, all smiles. "I've been on this committee for a few years, so I usually help the newbie Gamemakers." Someone on the blonde's other side gave a scoff.

"Oh, and this is Demetrius," Adrian added with an even larger grin, jerking their head to the seat next to them. It was occupied by a short, grumpy-looking young man with deep purple hair in a side-swept hairstyle.

He looked like he could be no older than her. Actually, he looked **younger** than her—but she didn't know if that was because of how he looked, or his actual age.

"It's nice to meet you both, Adrian, Demetrius," Jayel said swiftly, with practiced politeness. Her mind was whirring quickly, trying to perfectly memorize their names and faces.

Although, it shouldn't be that hard—they were both interesting, and very different from one another. Not to mention, that she felt like they would be spending time together, at least in sitting in the same vicinity for future meetings.

"Demy was the newbie before ya, just barely gettin' a seat last year. Youngest Gamemaker in history, gettin' in when he was 20," Adrian added with a small laugh, voice jovial and somewhat teasing. "I bet you're glad, huh, Demy? You're not the fresh meat any more!" they crowed, looking over their shoulder at the purple-haired boy.

"Don't call me Demy, Shiny Shit," Demetrius grumbled under his breath, serious expression contrasting with his babyish face. "Word of advice, Jayel—shut up, look alive, pay attention. Do whatever Head Gamemaker Takami says. We're starting."

Then the baby-faced man turned his attention promptly to the old man at the head of the table, who stood. The chatter in the room quickly died down. Everyone stopped in whatever benign thing they were doing to turn to Krius Takami.

"Another year has come and gone in the Hunger Games," the man started, eyes squinted so much that Jayel couldn't tell if he had trouble seeing, or if it that was his usual expression.

"Another year of **success** has come and gone," the man went on firmly, voice holding a strength of steel despite its softness. "The 20th Annual Hunger Games were grand, exciting, even legendary. From the mutations, to the finale, to the Arena itself—it was an impressive job."

"This year, however, we must keep striving. For not just interesting—for perfection. We must outdo ourselves, as we have done for every year prior, to be up President Tenebris Monochrome's—and our dear home, the Capitol's—standards."

Krius Takami looked around at the table. "So… To start off this meeting like of those prior…Do any of you have any ideas for this coming year's Arena?"

At that, the prior scene shattered. Instead of awe, reverie, and total attention…The Gamemakers seemed to go back to mindless chatter and benign tasks.

This confused the new, blue-haired Gamemaker. Demetrius had just advised that she should do whatever Head Gamemaker Krius said, but the others seemed to not want to give their own ideas on the matter of the Arena.

At her bewildered look, Adrian gave a grin, leaning towards her to talk quietly to her. Which was a first, for the amount of time she knew this friendly, joking Gamemaker.

"So, you got an idea, newbie? Wanna give this a try?" the androgynous blonde murmured, bemused. Their eyes were twinkling (was that glitter in their eyes too?! The hell?) with mirth. "Or d'ya wanna be like Demy, who chickened out and never said anything?"

Jayel shrugged, frowning. She didn't like **not** contributing. It wasn't her style.

If no one contributed, how were they going to get anything done…?

Unbeknownst to her, she didn't have to worry. All the other Gamemakers already knew that Krius Takami was a genius. The man was wise, and could plan and execute anything quickly.

It was merely a formality to ask for ideas. Krius always had an idea for the Arena before the first Gamemakers Meeting (which was usually held two months after the end of the Games).

And whenever Krius Takami had an idea, he stuck to it. Little deterred him.

It was rare for him to ever use someone else's idea. The man was practical, intelligent, and pretty much a miracle worker.

Krius didn't need any of the other Gamemakers, not truly. Not even his right-hand man, and second-longest working Gamemaker, the scarred and intimidating Atticus.

However, the others did the grunt work he had no time for. So he kept them, and the technicians, and all the other workers, if only to speed up the process and make the Arena come to fruition.

But Jayel Valiance was going to change this previous tradition. At least, for this meeting.

"I have an idea, sir," the new Gamemaker spoke, raising her hand politely.

Everyone turned their attention to the young woman.

"_What does she think she's doing?_" one Gamemaker murmured to another.

"_Doesn't she know that proposed ideas never used…?"_

"_She just doesn't know what she's doing, she's new_."

"_Watch her get her butt handed to her, just watch_."

"Go on, Ms. Valiance," Krius stated, nodding at her.

Jayel took a breath, mulling the idea over once more in her mind, before nodding resolutely. "How about a large-scale maze, sir?"

"Mmmm," the old man murmured, eyes squinting even further (or did he close them? It was hard to tell, since he was Japanese) as he stroked his chin.

"_I fucking knew it_," the woman with the nail file hissed.

"_He's not pleased at all…"_ another noted nervously.

"How would you overcome the issue of food and water, Ms. Valiance?" Krius asked, looking somewhat interesting, in a detached way.

The buzzing of the room ceased. The entire room stared quietly at the now nervous blue-haired woman.

"Well, say that this maze is an outdoors Arena," Jayel proposed. "The maze could be…Made of hedges. Plants could dot the grass and hedges—some of them edible, for the Tributes to gather. And as for water—perhaps you can place natural water fountains about maze.

"If anything, you could scatter packages of such supplies amongst the corridors, maybe in the dead ends. So that the Careers who monopolized the supplies wouldn't be the only ones with food and water..."

Krius leaned forwards, looking intrigued, hands spread across his desk.

"Yes…Yes, I see…" the man said, soft voice carrying across the room. "It's a good basis for an Arena…Perhaps we should build upon it."

Almost the entire room's jaws dropped, as they stared bewildered and awed at the blue-haired woman.

"_No fucking way_," one said hoarsely.

"_No one's ideas have ever actually gotten a green light before_!"

"_Seriously, how the hell…?"_

"Good job," Adrian whispered in her ear, smile as wide as a smug cat's.

"Anything else to expand upon this?" Krius queried, to the room at large. He looked around, seeming genuinely interested in the other Gamemaker's opinions, in a rare show of equality.

"Well, sir," Jayel started, smiling proudly, as she stepped up to give her ideas once more. "For the Cornucopia, we can…"

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><p><strong>Atticus Brevaunt, 55, Senior Gamemaker<strong>

It's been months since the first Gamemakers meeting. Months since the pleasant surprise of Krius Takami—Atticus' better, coworker, and ally—working **with** the other Gamemakers.

Unity was vital to everything. To progress, to a strong nation, to **life**. And despite the wealth of wisdom that was personified as Krius, the elder man wasn't one for unity. He led, others followed. That's how it has always been. The man was a vital head of Panem's government for years, before becoming Head Gamemaker, after all.

So Atticus had to commend the young Jayel Valiance for bringing upon this rarity of equality, if only for a few months. The atmosphere was more vibrant and excited, the other Gamemakers for once putting their full efforts into the goal of creating the Arena.

It wasn't just Krius at the head, and he by the leader's side. It was **all** the Gamemakers—the entire circle forming together, creating the wheel that sped up progress and took them to interesting places.

Atticus was particularly proud of the muttations that flourished to life, when they all put their ideas together. The Arena could be considered quite basic to some, but it was the twist and turns and dangers that made things worthwhile.

A rare smile flourished on the scarred man's face, as he looked down at the official list of Tributes for the 21st Annual Hunger Games.

**Official Records for the 21****st**** Annual Hunger Games**

**Tribute List**

District 1 Female: Regina Gabriella 'Ginny' Saunders, 18

District 1 Male: Devon Mahone, 18

District 2 Female: Terezie 'Zie' Raquelle, 16

District 2 Male: Isko 'Boom' Barrius, 18

District 3 Female: Vulca Spark, 17

District 3 Male: Malcolm Fritz, 17

District 4 Female: Briar Indigo, 15

District 4 Male: Lex Calder, 16

District 5 Female: Cerium Morgan, 16

District 5 Male: Gavin Cox, 18

District 6 Female: Calisto Cadbury, 16

District 6 Male: Yohan Freesia, 16

District 7 Female: Flynn Caltier, 15

District 7 Male: Tomoki 'Animal' Seshat, 18

District 8 Female: Madras Ling, 18

District 8 Male: Jonah Abagnale, 15

District 9 Female: Liseli Avere, 18

District 9 Male: Azrael Rachaye, 17

District 10 Female: Mattie Wilde, 17

District 10 Male: Clovis Essenerus, 17

District 11 Female: Vamiya Willows, 16

District 11 Male: Hastiin Tsoh, 14

District 12 Female: Ashia Henley, 15

District 12 Male: Canteen Neverlast, 15

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><p><strong>President Tenebris Monochrome<strong>

A similar list was sitting innocently on the President of Panem's desk. It was made of high-quality papyrus, written in emerald ink, embezzled with golden seals.

Tenebris couldn't help but give a small laugh, after scanning the list. So it seems that the three names he had rigged from the start did, in fact, end up getting Reaped.

A family member of a Victor, a criminal with Rebel ties who thinks they can outsmart and hide their misdeeds from the Capitol, and someone who could end up being an even more popular Victor than Kitrina Mordant.

Not to mention that all the delightfully strong and diverse personalities amongst this batch of Tributes will make things ever more interesting.

Yes, these Games will be fantastic…!

At that thought, Tenebris gave a long, full laugh that echoed across his high-ceiling office.


	3. Prologue: Blog

So I think I finally have most of the kinks worked out for the blog, except for the Tribute Profiles. But eff those, I can write them up when Reapings start to happen. Just freaking take it. **lost21sthg DOT jimdo DOT com**

I'm also going to have **our first poll,** about your favorite part of the blog. And for reviews in this chapter, you can comment on pretty anything: the chapter itself, thoughts of the blog, Victors, Tributes, etc.

Anyways, here to walk you through things is our favorite (but probably not) Gamemaker, the ever-sassy Demetrius. And also, because this chapter kinda needs some form of content to be legal.

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><p><strong>Demetrius 'Demy' Daybreak, 21, Gamemaker<strong>

The Gamemakers Room was fairly barren. The only ones up at and ready, at this early hour, could be counted one just one hand. The short list consisted of Demetrius himself, Atticus Brevaunt, Head Gamemaker Takami, and some bitch named Deltrese. Said bitch wasn't even fully up yet, complaining loudly about needing more cappuccinos, still whittling away at her nails with her stupid nail file that never left her god-damn hand.

Demetrius was trying his best to ignore all present, poring over his laptop, typing away madly. After about ten minutes of nonstop typing and formatting, someone loomed over his shoulder.

"What're you doing, Demetrius…?" someone asked, causing the young man to jolt out of his reverie, jumping slightly in his seat.

He looked up and over his shoulder at the person who **dared** disturb him. He blinked his dark eyes, noting that it was Jayel Valiance, the newest Gamemaker.

The man pressed his mouth into a firm line, debating on telling her. The woman was one of the least annoying Gamemakers, was one of the hardest working, was always able to hold an intelligent conversation, and was a surprisingly pleasant person.

There was also the fact that he considered her to be a good ally, and even tentative friend. And Demetrius was never one to make friends, so that definitely said a lot about her.

"Making something," he finally answered her, curt, as he turned back to tapping away on his laptop.

He felt her press herself closer to his back, trying to look around his figure, which was crouched protectively over his computer.

"A…blog?" she asked, bewildered. Demetrius felt himself flush. "I didn't know you made blogs…"

"I do," he said curtly, trying to ignore her, despite their closeness.

"But why are you making a blog about this year's Hunger Games?" she pressed, sounding dubious. "Wait—why are you giving away information on the Tributes?! Doesn't that seem a bit early?"

Demetrius cried as his laptop suddenly got yanked to the side. Before he could do or say anything, Jayel was already quickly clicking and scrolling through tabs.

"And why are you giving away information on the Arena?!" she yelped, eyes wide, as she scrolled down the home page.

"Give me that!" he hissed, as he yanked his precious computer back. He was feeling incredibly protective on not just his tech, but his pastime. "And it's not like information leaks don't happen all the damn time anyway…God, it's just a fucking picture of the Maze when it was in-progress, back the fuck off!"

The blue-haired woman gave a dissatisfied huff, crossing her arms. He noted belatedly with the action that her bust was actually very large, but no one seemed to note it, since she held a weightly figure.

"Fine then," she stated, looking displeased. "If it's common, fine. Keep making it. But I want to see its progress."

Demetrius blinked lamely at her. Did he hear her right?

She tilted her head. "Come on—I'm really curious, now. Not to mention that I know little of coding or formatting or making these types of things. I mainly just search through them."

Demetrius' eyes drifted down towards his screen once more, as he debated whether he should let her see it or not.

He **did** spend a lot of time on it…And Jayel was capable, enjoyable company…

Ah, fuck it. Sure, he'll show her.

"Yeah, sure. Just sit the fuck down—I don't want you looming over my shoulder; I **hate** that," he sighed, scooting his precious laptop to the side, adjusting himself to share the screen.

Jayel gave a bright smile, sitting down and adjusting herself quickly.

"Okay, so, you already saw the homepage," Demetrius started. "Basic, and all that. Nothing special."

"Now, onto the tabs. You see the _Tributes_, _Mentors_, and _Other_ tabs?" he asked her, hovering over each one.

"Yeah."

"Okay, well, _those don't fucking matter_, got it? It's _the drop-downs that have any important shit_," he stated bluntly.

"But then why even **have** those tabs?" Jayel questioned, confused. Demetrius huffed, rolling his eyes.

"Because you need those to even have drop-downs, **obviously**," he stated. "Okay, now onto the other stuff. See the _Stats_ and _Profiles_ drop-downs under both the _Tributes_ and _Mentors_ tabs? _Profiles_ hold _summaries of their backstories_, and shit. _Stats_ hold _information in a list format_, like official documentation."

"Alright, I get it now," she nodded thoughtfully, blue hair swishing.

"Okay, now moving onto _Tribute Track_. This _tracks the current progress of Tributes_: shows where they are when it comes to the Games, new allies, when they die, etcetera etcetera. You get the gist."

"Ohhhh, that sounds really handy," she noted with a smile, seemingly impressed.

Demetrius puffed up slightly in pride. "Hell yeah it is. It's annoying when you go to check up on their profiles, and you already see that your favorite's died already, before you checked the broadcasts."

"Anyways, see _Polls_? That literally just holds the _results of_ both official _polls_ and blog-related polls. So stuff on Tributes, stuff about the blog itself, stuff over who your favorite Mentor is—all in here."

"So more poll results than the Official Records? Huh."

"Yup. And finally, drop-downs under the _Other_ tab…Is _crap that didn't fit in any of the previous categories_. So profiles about us, the Arena, future muttations when they come up in the Games," here, he couldn't help but give a wide grin, and a small chuckle "you know, the usual."

Before the two young Gamemakers could speak further about the blog, they were interrupted by an unlikely person.

"What is this that you are collaborating on, Ms. Valiance and Mr. Daybreak?" queried the wisened, wavering tone that both fresh-faced Gamemakers knew well.

"Head Gamemaker Takami!" Demetrius squeaked, jolting in shock, his eyes feeling like they'd pop out of his skull.

"It's…A blog for the 21st Annual Hunger Games, sir…" the blue-haired woman answered hesitatingly, also looking spooked.

The old man clicked his tongue. "You youth, and your blogs and twittering and tumblers. Back in my day, and the computer was still in its early stages. To this very day, I cannot fathom why our youth is so enraptured with websites and apps with no useful application to real life. Why, when I was…"

Demetrius gave a low groan as Head Gamemaker Takami started to lecture them on the frivolity that laptops created, and the olden technology of back in his times of youth. Jayel, besides him, was faring much better at the boring droning—she was politely listening, nodding her head and making all the right motions and comments during pauses.

Damn it, he'd have to update the rest of his blog later…


	4. Intros: One Month

**AN**: Alrighty, here's the new chapter—the start of **Character Intros**! These are scenes that showcase each Tribute and their lives. There'll be **4** chapters of these Intros (each one having 6 tributes) which I moved around to fit in their time frames instead of going through in District order. After these, it's the Reaping chapters.

So, I wrote these intros in chronological order of when they happened, during the month. I _tried_ keeping them around the 1k mark, but Briar's ended up almost doubled because her section has Victors in it. Whoops.

Madras' entire situation just reminded me a lot of Fantine in Les Mis. So, yeah, the songs in her section are from the Les Miserables 2012 movie, _At The End Of The Day_ and _I Dreamed A Dream._ The songs in Jonah's section are _Baby_ and _Down to Earth_ by Justin Bieber. Also, Ashia's story mostly came from her submitter, _mikitty bast_. She had this huge epic on her form, which I just couldn't resist to add in the story.

The Tributes this chapter are: **Canteen, Briar, Mattie, Madras, Jonah, **and** Ashia**. Also, warning: swearing, guns, slurs, homophobic assholes, mentions of prostitution.

* * *

><p><strong>Intros: One Month<strong> (Until Reaping)

* * *

><p><strong>Canteen Neverlast, 15, District 12<strong>

Out in a remote place in the forests surrounding District Twelve stood a grazing buck. It was incredibly majestic and regal, despite its benign actions. It's coat was thick and a luscious shade of brown, its body a firm and hardy, and its antlers were large and fierce.

Slowly, a teenage boy crept towards said buck. He had a crude bow in his hands—one that he had made and tweaked himself, having crafted it after the very bows the hunters who delved into the forest used. The ramshackle weapon he had in his hands, despite looking very paltry compared to the real deal, had so far lasted an entire year. Much longer than his former attempts at crafting a weapon to hunt game with.

The curly-haired boy crept ever closer, carefully, slowing down his breathing. He brought up his weapon, stringing a self-crafted arrow in place, trying to not catch the attention of the buck and spook it.

So far, so good. The buck hadn't noticed him yet. The boy crept forwards a bit further, arms and arrow taut.

But then he suddenly snapped a twig under his foot, causing the buck to snort and rear up its head. He let the arrow go quickly, but it simply bounced off of the animal's antlers.

Said animal was now snorting and frantic. Before the boy could do anything other than curse, the buck did something sudden. With its strong hind legs, it forcefully kicked him in the face.

"God fucking damn it!" the boy cried out, clutching his mouth in pain—which had gotten the brunt of the impromptu attack.

The buck went and ran off before he could try shooting it down once more. Then again, he dropped his weapon, and doubted he could string up an arrow with the sharp pain in his mouth…

Taking his hand from his mouth, he found a large tooth and a few white chips, surrounded by blood, on his palm.

There came an exasperated sigh behind the boy, and a familiar voice. "Only **you** would get their teeth kicked in by a deer, Canteen…"

Canteen looked over his shoulder, grimacing, as he took in the form of his best friend. Said best friend had her hands on her hips, makeshift sling on her shoulder, shaking her head at him. Her dark hair swayed with the action.

"Hey, Haley," Canteen said slowly, before suddenly turning his face to the side to spit out some more blood and teeth chips.

Haley gave a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Let's just get you home, Canteen. Don't want you bleeding out or passing out on me," she stated tersely. At Canteen's watery-eyed, kicked-puppy look, she decided to add something positive. "At least we've gotten berries to trade at the Hob, and your mom can patch you up."

Canteen brightened, giving a large grin, before grimacing from the pain. "'Kay," he said, as he picked up his supplies, following Haley through the forest. "…And there's no guarantee that my Mom can help, y'know. She's still useless after my Dad died, remember? Just sits there, without doing anything..."

Haley should know of Canteen's situation. After all, the girl's father died in the same mining accident that killed Mr. Neverlast. Victor Sabbath was trying his best to improve the conditions of the mines and lower the fatality rate, but there were still accidents that happened all the time. Mining was a naturally tough, dangerous profession.

Haley snorted, hefting her sling farther up her shoulder. "Canteen, despite your delusions, Mira's actually being doing more than you give her credit for. And if **she** can't help, maybe Mitten—"

Canteen shot her a wide-eyed, aghast look. "We are **not** going to go and put my poor, precious little brother through something as traumatizing as tending to my blood-spewing mouth!"

"Canteen, Mitten's dealt with bloody injuries before—"

"No," Canteen stated firmly, grey eyes sharp, before covering his mouth once more to help with the bleeding. "Not poisoning pure little Mitten. The blood would be too much."

"Whatever," Haley snorted, rolling her own pair of Seam-grey eyes. "Let's just hide our stuff before we jump the fence like old-time Mexicans."

The two promptly hid their crappy weapons in their jackets with practiced ease. They then slowly crept towards the edge of the trees, looking around.

No one was by the fence. They neared it, hearing intently for the hum of electricity, but all was quiet. Quickly, they climbed and jumped over the chain-link fence, back into the official part of District Twelve.

The two meandered through the dirty, dust-covered pathways of the Seam, going towards the Neverlast's small home. On the way, something shone brightly on the grimy ground, catching the boy's attention.

"Ooooooh, shiny!" Canteen exclaimed, face bright, as he bent to pick it up.

"Canteen, no!" Haley hissed frantically, slapping his hand away, causing him to yelp. "You can't just pick up random shiny objects on the road! Remember, that's a past-time of the Peacekeepers that have nothing else to do: they plant a coin in a random place on the road, watch for someone to pick it up, and then they swoop in and arrest the poor sap that falls for it!"

"Aw, c'mon, Haley! It's shiny, so it must not be **that** bad!" Canteen argued, before kneeling down and swiftly snatching the object. The girl looked around nervously, but seeing that no Peacekeepers were jumping from between buildings, relaxed. "See, I told you," he replied smugly, a dumb grin on his face.

"Whatever—you just got lucky," Haley said haughtily, as he moved the object around in his hands. "Wait—that's not a coin!"

Canteen gave a happy laugh. "Nope! Hey, lookie here—it's, like, a golden pin!" he crowed, shoving the pin in the girl's face. "And it's got a hummingbird on it! Weird, huh?"

His friend scowled, swatting his hand away. "It's not a hummingbird, moron—it's a mockingjay," she told him patronizingly, before realizing something, and glared down venomously at the small object. "And who the hell even leaves a valuable pin in the middle of the road?!"

Canteen gave a languid shrug. "Dunno, and don't care. It's shiny, and it's mine now," he said, giving a dreamy grin that made him seem even more questionably stupid than before.

His friend spluttered angrily, looking like she couldn't even think of the words to explain how absolutely idiotic he was. Finally, she just firmly grabbed his shoulders, turned him forcefully towards his home, and gave him a shove.

* * *

><p><strong>Briar Indigo, 15, District 4<strong>

A teen girl quickly dried and put away the dishes that her mother washed, working in tandem together. They looked very similar—same straight, blonde hair, blue eyes, and body proportions.

"Briar, I'm sorry to do this—especially since your father won't be back for a few days—but I need you to take care of your little brother and sister for a few hours. I have a few classes to coach," the mother said as she dried her hands, standing right in front of the girl, looking apologetic.

"It's no problem, Mom," Briar said quickly, in her usual responsible manner.

She wasn't surprised at her mother's request. After all, Briar was usually stuck taking care of her siblings whilst her parents worked. It was inevitable, since her father was a Captain of one of Four's grand ships, usually gone for hefty stretches of time. And her mother had the important job of coaching kids on how to swim—a skill that was vital for the District.

She didn't begrudge her parents at all for this, though. Their family still loved each other very much, and Briar adored her siblings. Besides, the Indigos were part of the Cohen clan, through her mother—that meant that no matter what, there was always family that could help Briar, if she needed it.

"How about you go visit your Aunt Mags? I'm sure that Penelope and Augustus will love seeing her after—how long has it been? A whole month since they've seen her?" Pearl Indigo nee Cohen mused, a small smile on her face.

Briar brightened immediately at the suggestion. "I'll go get them ready, right now!" she said cheerily, before rushing off to wrestle her young siblings in proper clothes for a visit to the Victor's Village.

Before long, Briar had the little five year old boy and six year old girl in decent clothes. The three children parted ways with their mother, bounding down their roadway excitedly.

Briar enjoyed spending time with her aunt, even if she saw her every so often at the Training Center. Aunt Mags was just a total joy, always kind and understanding, like a mother to the entire District. And it was lucky that she came out unchanged from the Hunger Games, so that she could spread her warmth to everyone.

Soon enough, the three Indigo children were at the intricate gate of the Victor's Village, walking up the beautiful cobblestone path towards the welcoming mansion of Mags Cohen. Penelope and Augustus finally managed to wriggle their grips from Briar's, and ran right up the path, giggling and hollering like energetic little children usually do.

Briar, already used to her siblings, simply jogged behind them, bringing up the rear of their little group. The two kids shared a look as they stopped right at the foot of the door, before twisting open the silver knob together. The tiny duo stepped into the large entryway, bouncing around excitedly, looking every which way. Briar had the decency to shut the door behind her—even if the door would most likely open once more, from the constant stream of people that entered and left the mansion.

"C'mon—let's see if we can find Aunt Mags," she told them as she crouched down, a playful grin on her face. Her siblings beamed at her, before latching onto her hands and dragging her through the archways of the mansion.

The trio comfortably greeted family members as they made their way through the large home. However, after ten minutes of wandering, her siblings were getting tired and just wanted to see their favorite aunt (although, none of them would say so to their family members, in case they got offended).

Briar smartly asked one of her cousins—who was lounging on a very comfortable-looking armchair in one of the sitting rooms—for Mags' whereabouts. He looked up from his book, pushing his glasses up his nose, before telling her Mags' probable location: a small kitchen near the back of the house, first floor. Briar thanked him gratefully, before her siblings dragged her away.

As they neared the small kitchen near the back of the mansion, her siblings bounded in before her.

"Aunt Mags!" the duo yelled in unison, as they rushed towards the blonde woman sitting at the small, two-person table. They surrounded her, hugging her, as she looked at them with a surprised grin.

"Hello, little ones!" Mags said brightly, despite the sudden intrusion. Briar stood off to the side, grinning at the sight, before she realized that there was someone else in the small kitchenette. Festus Marsh was languidly sitting across from Mags. One of his eyebrows was quirked at the sudden intrusion, a cup of tea halfway to his mouth.

She shouldn't be surprised. After all, Festus was District Four's second Victor, so his home was next to Mags'. And then there's the fact that Mags invited him often to her mansion, seemingly adopting him into the Cohen clan, in a very Mags-like fashion.

"Hello, Uncle Festus," Briar greeted him with a small wave, giving him a lop-sided grin.

"Hey, Brat," the brunette man retorted easily, before giving a small gulp of his cup.

Those words snapped Augustus and Penelope out of their reverie. They soon turned their affections to the man sitting at the table, pouncing on him.

"Uncle Festus!" they cried in unison, as they started to hug his sides.

"Gah! What the hell, brats?!" he crowed, barely keeping from spilling his tea over them. "Get off me!"

"But we haven't seen you in **forever**, Uncle Festus!" Augustus whined.

"And you can't escape from our hugs this time, when you're sitting down," Penelope added sagely, giving a giggle.

The man gave a grumble, glaring between the children, Briar—who was watching the entire thing, hands behind her back, rocking on her heels—and the ever beaming Mags. "Fine, I'll give ya that, at least," he roughly said to the two little ones. "But how many times do I gotta tell ya that I'm **not** your uncle?"

"But you are!" "You're Uncle Festus!"

"Festus, I don't think the little Cohen and Indigo children will stop calling you Uncle. It's a few years too late," Mags noted in a chiming voice, as she sipped languidly at her tea.

"Like hell," he denied, soon swiftly turning his to attention to the duo that were latched to him. "Look, I can't be your real Uncle, 'cuz I'm not married into your family. That's how it works, right? 'Least, I think so…"

The two looked up at him in confusion, before sharing a look. Suddenly, an understanding seemed to pass between the brother and sister, and their eyes gleamed.

"Then, you should marry Aunt Mags! And then you can be our real Uncle!" Penelope stated simply, jumping a bit in place.

Festus, who was barely taking a drink of his tea, spit it violently back into its cup. He looked down at the pair, dumbfounded, eyes wide. "T-The hell?!" he exclaimed, his face going pink.

Mags, sitting across the table, tried to cover her snickers behind her fist. Briar was silently laughing in the background—having perfected the technique from all the shenanigans her siblings got into.

The poor man looked lost, as he frantically looked around the room. "T-That's—I ain't—You **brats**! I-I'm not just gonna suddenly marry Mags outta **nowhere**, it's not how it's **done**!" he exclaimed, glaring down at the innocent-looking children.

"But then you'll be our official Uncle!" Penelope chirped, staring at him with doe eyes.

"That still wouldn't work, ya brats! I'd be an in-law or somethin', and…" the wavy-haired man floundered, giving a pointed glare at his fellow Victor—who merely grinned at the spectacle.

"Well, if he's not gonna marry Aunt Mags…" Augustus mused, a smirk spreading across his usually angelic features. "He can marry Briar!"

"Yeah, marry Briar!" Penelope exclaimed, her expression perfectly mirroring her younger brother's.

At this, Briar's face flamed, turning a deep red. She stared wide-eyed between her cheeky siblings, a still amused Mags, and an equally embarrassed Festus. When she got to Festus with his wide, mesmerizing, grey eyes and flushed, handsome face, she snapped her gaze down towards her feet.

She felt so **embarrassed**. Festus was her **teacher**! Whenever she attended the Training Center, he was always there, helping her with her weapon training. And she truly looked to him as a bit of an uncle—she wouldn't ever think of marrying him!

But then again, he **was** handsome. And the age gap between them was the same as her own parents—7 years—so it's not like that bothered her, per se…

Wait, why was she even thinking of this?!

Her face darkened to maroon, as her siblings chanted "Mar-ry Bri-ar! Mar-ry Bri-ar!" whilst they jumped up and down, clinging to Festus' arms.

"Get off me, brats!" Festus exclaimed, face aflame, ripping his arms from their grips. "Shut up about me marryin' Bri—Brat! About marryin' your brat sister!"

He gave an imploring look towards Mags, obviously pleading with his eyes to _help him_. Mags was laughing so hard, tears were falling out of her green eyes, and sound stopped coming out of her mouth. But she took a few deep breaths, brushed the tears away with her finger, and stood up.

"Penelope, Augustus—How about I show you how to make more fish hooks? What do you say?" she said kindly, lowering down to the height of the children. The two beamed at her, bouncing excitedly around her, finally leaving the poor man they'd been hounding to compose himself.

Mags straightened, taking the two kid's hands in her own. She looked towards the still-mortified Briar, eyes twinkling. "Do you want to stay with Festus, Briar? Or will you be joining us…?"

"I-I'll go!" Briar squeaked, eyes flitting about nervously, her face still red. She skittered out of the room quickly.

She'd never felt so embarrassed in her life; she was usually very outgoing and unflappable, used to her siblings' shenanigans. But then a very good-looking male got dragged into it, and she was a blushing mess!

Briar, thankfully, managed to avoid Festus for the rest of her stay in the Cohen mansion. It took her an entire week to finally make the decision of going back to the Training Center, and end up meeting him again.

* * *

><p><strong>Mattie Wilde, 17, District 10<strong>

Dinner passed by in its usual affair in the Wilde home—loud talking, Mattie complaining, dishes clanking, and an overall warm atmosphere. Soon, the Wilde family retired for the night, all tucked in to their beds.

Except for Mattie. Her hunter senses were tingling, ears twitching, an odd shiver coiling down her spine. Slowly, she slid off of her bed, laced on her boots, shouldered on her jacket, and snuck out of her room. She passed by the den, picked up her trusty rifle, and slowly crept her way to the back door.

Something was wrong. She could feel it in the air, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.

She slid open the door quietly, stepping out onto her back porch. Here, she scoured the area, listening and looking intently.

The stable door was creaking open from a breeze. That shouldn't be happening—Mattie sealed the damn thing herself.

Was it a fox, or a wolf? No, it couldn't be. There was noise coming from the stables—loud and bumbling, but like it was purposefully muffled. Animals would either be incredibly silent, or cause complete chaos.

She got closer, swift but still light-footed. She could hear the horses snorting in irritation, and a few low whinnies. The latch didn't seem to have any damage in the form of claw marks, or any other signs that the culprit was a beast.

Then she heard it. A frantic, high-pitched whinny, and a few decidedly **male** curses.

Robbers. And they were trying to steal one of the damn new-born ponies, probably thinking that it would be easier to take than a full-grown, trained horse.

She quickly stepped into the building, readying her rifle. "Step away from the pony, motherfuckers."

The two young men who were trying to wrestle the pony into bindings paused, snapping their heads towards her. Their eyes widened at the sight of the rifle.

She steadied her barrel towards them, eyes narrowed. One of them was a plain-faced brunette with green eyes, who looked like the older one of the duo. The other one was stockier, with dark hair, who had a vicious sneer on his face.

"Step away from the damn pony, or I'll fuckin' shoot you and yer robbin' asses 'til you're deader than a doorknob," Mattie re-iterated coarsely, anger frothing.

No one hurts her fucking horses, and gets away with.

"Leave the horse! Run!" the brunette man ordered, jumping up to his feet. His partner in crime quickly got up and did so, the two bolting out of the other exit.

"Oh no you don't!" Mattie roared, stepping out of the exit right next to her to give chase. They were surprisingly fast, but not far enough for her to miss with her rifle. She quickly brought up the weapon, aimed, and fired.

A pained yell, and one of the men suddenly limping instead of running, confirmed that she shot him in the leg. Suddenly, another hollering young man came from the side—from the trajectory, it seems like he'd been planted to watch the front of the house.

Idiots. Did they **honestly** not consider someone going out the back door?

"And don't you come back, you scummy dumbasses!" she yelled after their retreating figures, feeling oddly proud of having scared off three robbers on her own.

Suddenly, Mattie's parents were rushing towards her.

"What in tarnations is happenin'?!" roared the imposing Buck Wilde, his own rifle in his hands. He huffed as he took his place next to his daughter, looking around wildly, red hair glinting from the moonlight.

"We heard yellin', and gunshots!" Lottie Wilde said frantically, rushing in her nightgown and slippers. She looked over her daughter anxiously, seeing if she was hurt.

"It's fine—stop with yer damn fussin', Ma," Mattie groused, swatting away her mother's hands. She turned to her father. "There were robbers—three of 'em, tryin' to steal one of our ponies. I caught 'em in the act, threatened 'em with my rifle, and they bolted. I managed to shoot one of 'em in the leg."

Buck gave a curt nod to his daughter, a small, proud grin on his face. "Those rats won't be comin' back here again. Nice job, baby girl," he told her, clapping her on the back.

0-0-0-0-0

Oddly enough, those robbers came back the very next day. However, this time, they didn't try to steal anything. Instead, they came and knocked on the front door, like **normal** people.

Mattie opened the door, met with the sight of two familiar men, and some dark-skinned kid that looked younger than her. She scowled fiercely at them, body tensed, ready to fight them.

"We're not here to fight, bitch," sneered the stockier man, the one with the dark hair. He gave her a once-over with his eyes, making her skin crawl. "Though, I wouldn't mind it in a different sense…"

"Um, we're kinda here to apologize, actually…" said the youngest of the group awkwardly. He scratched the back of his head, laughing nervously. "Um, I'm Bart. The dick over here" he gestured to the stocky man, who glowered down at him, "is, ironically enough, named Dick. And the tower behind me is my brother Reid."

Mattie stared at them with half-lidded eyes, clearly not amused.

"Don't care. Yer robbers—I can sick the fuckin' Peacekeepers on you, and then won't have to deal with yer stupid excuses," she groused, glowering at the trio of bedraggled men on her doorstep.

"Ah—But two can play at that game," the tallest and oldest—Reid—said, with a pleasant smile on his plain face. Mattie gave him a questioning look, arms crossed, her attention fully on him.

"The Peacekeepers may look the other way when it comes to hunting with rifles to catch fresh meats, if they get a cut of the share…But what if said rifles ended up hurting someone?" At this, he shifted one of his legs forwards; it was covered in bandages. Mattie realized that this man was the one she managed to hit, last night.

"You—and your entire family—can get punished by your illegal ownership of rifles, and shooting a person with said rifles. That's dangerous, not to mention very…Rebellious, yeah?" Reid spoke, oddly jovial.

She sneered venomously at him. "You tried to fuckin' **rob** us, and you're gonna try throwin' **us** under the bus?"

"But owning dangerous weapons can be used against the Capitol in revolts—at least, that's what the Peacekeepers say. And who's worse off? Robbers, or potential rioters?" The stocky man—Dick— interjected. A cruel grin was on his face, as he casually popped his neck.

For once, Mattie was intimidated. She never thought that a group stupid enough to not be able to steal a fucking **pony** was smart enough to **blackmail** her and her family.

"Fine," she spit through clenched teeth. "I won't rat **you** out, and you won't rat **me** out. We're even."

"Oh, that's a relief!" noted Bart with a sigh and a dimple-filled smile. "I'm usually not great at talking to pretty girls in most situations, but this whole blackmail thing made it even more nerve-wracking, haha."

"Fine, whatever," she deadpanned, fighting the urge to grin from Bart's comment and jovial nature. "Get the hell off our property, and have an oh-so-fan-fuckin'-tastic day," she growled, ready to slam the door in their faces.

"Wait!" interjected Reid quickly. Mattie paused, her red hair swishing, oddly curious. When he noted that she wasn't going to slam the door in their faces just yet, he gave her a bright smile.

"Why don't you join us? With someone of your talent in our gang, we could do so much more…"

A few days later, Mattie Wilde was the new raid watcher and strategist for Reid's gang of petty thieves. The thrill of constant danger won her over.

* * *

><p><strong>Madras Ling, 18, District 8<strong>

A young Asian woman let out a long breath, as she cleaned and put away the chipped dishes in the tiny, broken cupboards. She had just sent her little brother Cotton to do his schoolwork in their shared room. Their meager dinner of plain noodles and half a slice of grainy Tessera bread had went by quietly.

It used to not be like this. She still remembers how, just a year ago, her life was full of warmth. Her parents were still alive, and they all lived in the home above the Ling Tailor Shop. There was always laughter, love, enough food to fill their bellies, and enough heat from the stove to keep away the biting chill.

Madras gave a severe shiver. Before the Peacekeepers had raided their shop, she'd never had any particularly bad experiences with them. But then those strong men in pure-white uniform raided the Ling Tailor Shop, quickly killing her parents, believing that they were terrorists that were hiding weapons amongst the spools of fabric.

Her family would **never** do anything so awful. They were good people.

Only after the Peacekeepers tore apart the store and their home, did they realize they'd been mistaken. All Madras got was a stiff apology from the Mayor, and a small monetary compensation for the deaths of her parents.

She was forced to deal with her parent's dead bodies, arrange the funeral, clean the shop. Then she was ordered to vacant it so that it could be turned into a new store. She took whatever valuable items that were left intact from the destruction, and moved her and Cotton into a dingy little apartment in the Smog area of the District.

The monetary compensation dwindled quickly, in lieu of paying for rent and buying second-hand items for their barren apartment. Madras then sold off all the spools of fabrics and precious items she'd salvaged.

But that wasn't enough, either. The money disappeared, so, so quickly…

They both took out Tesserae. Madras didn't like that her brother put his name in more times in the Reaping bowl; she wanted to protect him. But he was vehement, saying that she did everything by herself through this tragedy, and that he needed to do **something** to not feel like a total burden.

The Tesserae helped, but there was only so much the meager supply of grain and oil could do for them. She was forced to find a job.

But none of the factories had room. They were already overcrowded as it was. Overcrowded, overworked, underpaid…

No matter where she tried to look, she couldn't find an opening. She'd even stood in front of the gates of some of the factories with the rest of those that were hoping to gain a job. But she was so short and frail, she was never able to fight her way through the crowd and into the gates, whenever the managers opened them for an allotted number of people to start work.

Even Cotton had tried. After all, the Looms always went through many children to work the machines and fix things. But he was so tiny and weak, despite being fourteen, because of his Asian heritage… There were so many children swarming the Looms, he couldn't find one either.

Madras took in a long, shaky breath, as she clutched the kitchen counter, her knuckles white.

She'd have to do **it**. She'd have to go **back,** and…

She didn't want to, but it was necessary.

She'd started her new profession five months ago. But back then, it was only once every other week, at most. Only when she was paranoid, thinking that the money or Tesserae couldn't stretch out.

But as the months passed, she started going more frequently. Three months ago, it was once every week. Last month, it was three times a week.

And now, this month, she'd lied to Cotton. She lied, telling him she got a job as a night security guard at one of the factories.

But it was such a paltry, **pathetic** lie. Madras was 5 feet 4 inches, thin, Asian, a teenager who was still of Reaping age, and a woman. No factory manager would be stupid enough to hire her as a security guard. The only thing she could guard was her problems.

But Cotton—bright, yet oblivious, **wonderful** Cotton—bought it. He is none the wiser to her vile profession. He's just focused on school—which is what Madras wanted for him. Cotton was precious, and intelligent, and still had a bright future ahead of him…

But not her. She was sullied and dirty, utterly hopeless and worthless. But Cotton still had a **chance**, and damn it all, she would keep at it if it meant he was able to become something worthwhile!

Madras' eyes burned, and she choked back a sob. She clapped a hand to her mouth, the tears slowly sliding down her face.

She wasn't strong. She couldn't hide her weakness, because that just took up her entire being. But she could hide her biggest problems. So long as Cotton never guessed that she became a prostitute, it would be alright.

She breathed in deeply, trying to calm her tears. The tears just kept spilling, but at least she wasn't sobbing.

Quickly, head ducked down, she shuffled into the one bedroom of their apartment. She went to one of her drawers of the beat-up dresser, rifled through, until she pulled out the careful bundle of her 'work clothes'.

Cotton was oblivious to her, sitting on their deflated little bed, burning a candle to read. He was reading his text book, and scrawled something on a page of paper.

Good, he was doing his school work. Quietly, Madras shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind her. She went to the box-like bathroom, and quickly changed into her new outfit.

Even though she's worn this many times before, it still brought her shame.

She exited the bathroom, hovering in the middle of the hall. Finally, she decided to bid farewell to her brother, like she usually did. "Cotton, I'm going to work now!" she called, voice still quiet, through the bedroom's door.

"Okay!" he called back, Madras clearly hearing him through the thin wood.

Taking a deep breath, quickly wiping her tears away, Madras exited her apartment.

To raise her spirits for the inevitable night of shame ahead of her, she sung a little song to herself.

"_At the end of the day, it's another day over…With enough in your pocket to last for a week…Pay the landlord, pay the shop, keep on working as long as you're able… Keep on working, till you drop, or it's back to the crumbs off the table…You've got to pay your waaaaay…At the end of the day_."

As Madras meandered her way down the back alleys of the District, ready to go to its dirty underbelly, she stopped. A frown was on her face.

That song was a very popular one around the District, usually sung by the workers at the factories. However, she **wasn't** a factory worker. She wasn't truly paving her way. She wasn't doing an honest, long day's work.

She was just…A whore.

Giving a shaky breath, Madras decided to sing another song. One of bittersweet melancholy.

"_I had a dreaaaam my life would be…So differeeeent from this hell I'm living… So differeeeeent noooooow from what it seeeemed…"_ she started morosely, trudging down the darkness, feet already knowing where to take her.

"_Now life has killed…The dream… I dreaaaaaaamed_…"

* * *

><p><strong>Jonah Abagnale, 15, District 8<strong>

_"And I was like—baby, baby, baby ohhhhh…"_

A teen boy with questionably pretty features meandered down the dirty street, singing languidly as he walked. He casually had his hands tucked in the pockets of his pants. His opened button-down fluttered slightly at each step, framing his wife beater tank top.

He had no destination in mind; he was walking because he was bored as hell. When he'd popped into his house, no one was there. He also checked into his neighbor's house to see if his best friend could hang out with him, but Feather wasn't home, either.

There was no one else that really hung out with him. Most of the boys at school despised him, and Jonah had punched quite a few of them. Then, the girls—bar Feather, his best friend—were kinda…Crazy and clingy.

Jonah didn't feel like dealing with the swarms of love-struck girls that clambered over themselves to date him. They constantly surrounded him at school, and he'd rather keep them at a distance when in public, so he could get some space to breathe, thanks.

God, he knew he was beautiful and had the voice of an **angel**, but sometimes it was just too much…

"Hey, faggot! Why aren't you off sucking dick?" a voice suddenly sneered behind him.

Jonah sighed in irritation. There goes the peace and quiet…

He turned around to see a small group of angry teen boys who tried to look intimidating and macho. He remembered these losers: he's punched each of them in the face at least three times.

"You back for another broken nose, boys?" Jonah asked lazily, subtly shifting his stance, in case he needed to fight them.

"You **wish**, fag," one sneered.

"Yeah, I bet you wish you could touch us, like the total faggot you are," another jibed.

"Probably," the leader scoffed, a smirk in place. "After all," he started, voice taunting, "He was raised by fags. They probably taught him and his little pansy of a brother how to be huge, disgusting homos, like them."

Jonah, who'd been stiffly waiting for them to do something, saw red.

Talk shit about him? Fine. He can deal with the haters.

Talk stupid homophobic shit about his family? Hell to-the-fuck no. You're getting your ass beat.

With an enraged war cry, a fierce snarl on his face, Jonah pounced. In one fluid motion, he brought his fist back— and quickly decked the dumbass leader that had slandered his family square in his stupid, ugly face.

One of the lackeys jumped forwards. But, thinking quickly, Jonah merely sidestepped him. He brought out his arm, and using the boy's forwards momentum, flipped the moron onto the ground with a small motion of his arm.

Without missing a beat, Jonah threw out his elbow of his opposite arm, elbowing another advancing lackey in the face. He then rammed his open palm onto his fist, giving his elbow extra force, and heard a satisfying crunch.

Suddenly, Jonah was jumped by behind. But using his upper arm strength, he crouched and threw the boy forwards. With the kid off-balanced, Jonah swiftly got him in a chokehold, punching him in the face with his unoccupied hand. He let the boy go, who crumpled to the ground, howling in pain whilst he clutched his face.

"You fuckers take it back," Jonah said lowly, teeth bared aggressively. "Take back what you said about my family, or I'll send you to the fucking hospital."

The small group of aggressors, thoroughly beaten and intimidated, scrambled up to their feet. "You'll regret this, faggot!" the leader yelled, before the entire group turned tail and ran back down the small, cobblestone street.

Jonah watched them leave with grim satisfaction, as he rubbed the knuckles of his dominant hand. His hand was bruised, some of the knuckles split—but it was worth it.

With a sigh, Jonah turned to start trudging back to his house. He needed to bandage up his hand, or find a way to hide it from his family.

"_So we fight, so we fight…through the hurt, through the hurt…And we cry and cry and cry and cry…And we live, and we live…And we learn, and we learn…And we try and try and try and try…_" Jonah sang under his breath, watching as his home came into his sight.

Honestly, having a brother and two dads shouldn't be a god damn problem…

* * *

><p><strong>Ashia Henley, 15, District 12<strong>

**_Ashia Ilyes Henley_**_ was born fifteen winters ago. It was a time when the homeless would beg for death from starvation, and frostbite would take their toes or fingers. When snow and ice would seep into everything, and freeze the machines solid. _

At this point in the entry, the pencil paused, just a few centimeters from the page of the well-worn notebook. Slowly, the girl who had been writing before began to do something new—she drew.

A quick mapping of a head and bust was drawn next to the cramped writing, in the margins. It was feather-light, and only noticeable by those who could stare closely at the paper.

Swiftly, Ashia drew in almond-shaped eyes, a nose, and small lips. Then she added more pencil strokes, each one perfectly executed, creating chin-length, black hair. She then proportioned the neck properly, drawing on a simple button-up top, adding minute folds in the proper places for the cloth.

All in all, the drawing took maybe thirty seconds. Ashia surveyed her work, giving a small nod, before going back to writing.

_Her parents, while they loved the young girl— and each other— deeply, were poor. They simply couldn't afford the young girl, their little bundle of joy. All they had went to the greatest necessities: house payments, and food. _

_Most of Ashia's clothes came from one of her parents, because of this. Her shirts were sizes much too big for her, and had patches upon patches sewn in the cloth, in attempt to keep the outfit together. Her parents tried their best to give her a good life. They bought little trinkets for her, if they could afford it, and showered her with love and affection. _

Again, the girl paused. Under this entry, she started to draw the basics of two adults, and a child between them. Her hand flew across the paper, flitting between each figure. She did their faces, then their hair, and then finally proportioned their bodies. She created the mother to have a hand on the little girl's shoulder, the father putting a hand on the other, and a hand around his wife's waist.

It was hard to fit in much detail, since she was drawing them to be so small, to save space. But the realism in these little thumbnails was astounding, nonetheless.

Once more, she went back to her entry.

_She __**tried**__ to make friends, but the girl was shut down each time. _

_A stutter in her early childhood was obvious. Words got mixed up, or pronounced wrong. It caused the other little ones to sneer at her, asking her why she couldn't "talk right"._

_As she grew, she hoped that school would be different. After all, she saw the children playing around in the school courtyard, saw how happy they looked. _

_However, school wasn't the best experience for her, either. She sat alone at lunch, drawing in her book, and watched as the other kids played games with each other. She never stood out in class. She simply sat in the back of the class room, and never actively participated. Almost as if she was mute; almost as if she __**didn't exist**__._

Here, Ashia clenched her pencil tightly, hand whitening. Her mouth pursed into a thin line.

She jerkily, angrily started to draw little scenes under the words. A small girl, alone, surrounded by black crosshatching. A young girl, hunched over a book, children playing in the background. A girl sitting at the back of a classroom, surrounded by talkative classmates, yet still alone.

_Bullies never seemed to try and pick on her that much, oddly enough. Maybe if it was a slow day, and their usual targets were gone. But even then, they did so rarely. _

_After all…What kind of entertainment would you get from a girl who wouldn't fight back against you at all? Who would just stand there blank-faced, seemingly an emotionless robot, until you left? _

_Not much. Not much at all. _

With a grim upwards quirk of the edge of her mouth, Ashia drew herself, looking dead and emotionless. Deadpan, unmoving as stone, as if she was a statue. The vague figures of boys in mid-speech surrounded her. But she was boldly outlined, stark black-and-white, compared to their hazy lead grays.

_There was a good part of her school life. The girl __**did**__ excel in her school work. She always placed at the top in her grade. This gave her an odd sense of satisfaction._

Ashia gave a miniscule smile, making a tiny box on the side with a large 100 dominating the top of the doodle.

_The girl's parents tried for another child, once she entered the Reaping bowl. Unfortunately, no child was conceived between the two, despite the three long years that have passed. Although, the girl still hopes they'd be able to make a child one of these days, despite their frugal position. _

_She has adopted—of a sorts— a small border collie named Minny, caring for her as training for a younger sibling in the future_

A small smile bloomed on Ashia's face, as she fondly thought of the scrawny dog. She gently drew the happy visage of the dog, each stroke loving. The eyes, snout, jaw, mouth—and then finally the wonderful fur, each small stroke drawn softly upon the page.

_Minny seemed to follow the girl around for the past year and half, looking for both food and affection. The dog found Ashia, who's more then happy to do both. She's rather spunky and affectionate with the girl, who has no trouble playing with the dog for hours upon hours, until dark. The girl loves the affectionate dog, and is really glad Minny began following her around. _

_The girl is glad she finally made a friend._

At that, Ashia gently closed her notebook. Writing about her best friend gave her the strong urge to go find and play with the adorable animal.

Ashia stood, notebook and pencil clutched firmly in her hands, and meandered off to give Minny a good rub on the head.


	5. Intros: One Week

**AN**: Whoo, I managed to post this before Christmas Eve! Which was a miracle, since today I helped make tamales.

They're still in chronological order, but also a bit from most humorous to least, like last chapter. Because when you're writing Tributes and their backstories, you start digging up a lot of dark shit, man.

The Tributes this chapter are**: Zie, Boom, Calisto, Gavin, Clovis, **and** Yohan**. Also, warning: explosions, swearing, slurs, physical abuse, polyamory, boys kissing, killing puppies, gambling, Batman, and a slew of other crap.

Wow, what is this now, a Michael Bay movie when he's off drunk in Vegas? At least it wasn't a musical, like last chapter…Also, that awkward moment when your best friend/boyfriend shares the name of one of the Tributes…

* * *

><p><strong>Intros: One Week<strong> (Until Reaping)

* * *

><p><strong>Terezie 'Zie' Raquelle, 16, District 2<strong>

When most girls in District Two wake up, their first thoughts are possibly of going back to sleep, or of having to ready themselves to look perfect for the day. Maybe some have to will themselves to wake in order to go to the Tribute Academy, wondering what activities they will be doing today.

But of course, the first thought Zie Raquelle had when she woke on that overcast day, was that she was getting rusty, and should find a nice building to jump off of today.

With that in mind, Zie ripped the covers off of herself, quickly threw on some random hodgepodge of an outfit, slipped in her shoes, and zipped out of her room. She quickly bounded down the hall, into the kitchen, snatched up a slice of toast, and left before her aunt could say nary a word.

The girl ripped open the front door of their cozy home, bounding out, the necklace worn under her shirt clacking loudly. "Zie!" the soft-hearted woman cried out, stepping out of the door that her niece blazed through.

All she could do was watch as the girl bounded down the road, giving her a languid "See ya later, Aunt Partridge!" before she shoved the entire piece of toast in her mouth.

Zie didn't want her aunt to slow her down. The woman was a worrywart and overprotective. But then again, she was soft-hearted, and pretty much let her do whatever she wanted. Hm…

Her thoughts quickly went from her aunt, to her favorite person in the world—who was sitting at the corner of the street, like he usually did.

Zie's wild amber eyes brightened at the sight of the hobo. He was the only person in the District that didn't avoid her or was unnerved by her, so he was thusly her favorite person in the world. It didn't matter if he had questionable hygiene and wore the same clothes all the time—she was like that most of the time, too.

"Mister!" she squealed out happily, bounding towards him, her uncombed hair swishing behind her.

The man jolted from his serene reverie, slowly raising his head, blinking to focus his gaze on her. At the sight of her, he gave a lopsided grin.

"Ah, hey there, Zie. How's my favorite girl doing on this fine morning?" he asked, voice dazed from sleep, as he raised a hand in greeting.

"I'm doing great!" she exclaimed with a wide grin, as she plopped down next to him, right on the dirty pavement.

"Hmmm…That so?" he asked languidly, scratching at his growing beard. Zie stared at it, suddenly very fascinated.

Mister usually had long-ish hair and a beard, but she remembers when once, he had shaved it off and got a haircut. He had looked so **young**, and kinda handsome, to boot. But the beard and long hair were more familiar, and just screamed 'Mister'.

"You up for a game of Black Jack, then?" the man asked her, swiftly reaching into the pocket of his coat, bringing out a well-worn pack of cards. "Or you want me to whoop your cute little butt at B.S., again?" he added with an amused grin.

Zie pouted at him. "I'll win against you at B.S., one of these days, Mister…" she grumbled. But the man just chuckled good-naturedly, patting her on the head, which caused her to beam happily at him. "But, sorry, not right now. Kinda getting rusty, so I need to find a good building, and take a dive off it."

The bearded man frowned at her in concern. "For your…Career Training? Yeesh, I still can't believe they make you kids do such extreme things like jump off buildings…"

She simply gave a hum, and a restless little wriggle in her seat. "Yeah, somethin' like that…" she said distractedly. Suddenly, she jumped up from her spot, looking itching to start running. "Anyways, yeah— I'm gonna go do that! See ya later, Mister!"

Before the man could question her further about her life choices, or think of another way to get her to give him money, she bounded off down the street.

"God help anyone that has to put up with her…" he muttered to himself, shaking his head sadly. The hobo then promptly settled back down on the pavement, hoping to get another few minutes of shut-eye.

* * *

><p><strong>Isko 'Boom' Barrius, 18, District 2<strong>

A monstrously large teenage boy was demolishing many straw training dummies with his club, in District Two's Tribute Academy. He did so in an almost casual way, a serene smile on his face.

He also chatted to his friends—fellow training Careers—putting most of this attention to their conversation rather than his actions.

"So, I was wondering if you guys wanted to go down to the corner store to get some last-minute supplies for…" Isko babbled, before noting the white faces and wide eyes of his friends. "Hey, what's wrong? You guys look like you've seen a ghost, haha," he noted, laughing jovially. At the same time he laughed, he hit a dummy so hard that it literally exploded into tiny pieces.

"Um, nothing, bro…" one of the potential Career boys squeaked, having to look up at the towering 6 feet 5 inch glory that was Isko 'Boom' Barrius.

Isko gave a blindingly bright smile. "Okay! So, you guys up for it? My new project is totally sick—I've been tweaking and working on it all week, you know!"

"Er—Sorry, man, but it's the last week we have for training. And they still haven't chosen the Volunteer yet, so we kinda need to get as much practice in as we can…" another boy muttered, oddly meek, as he scuffed his shoe against the tile.

There came a lot of similar comments from the rest of the group, and Isko's expression fell, utterly crushed. His imposing figure seemed to wilt.

This made the group even more uncomfortable, since he now resembled a kicked puppy. Isko always acted like a cheerful, massive, easily excited dog. Sometimes, people forgot that, since he was so imposingly big and strong.

"Boom, I brought your project here, just like you asked!" came a cheerful chirp from across the room. The entire group turned towards the disturbance.

It was one of Isko's younger brothers, Rizal. Isko's countenance brightened immediately, as he grinned widely at the thirteen year old. You could literally visualize the wagging tail and logging tongue on the older boy.

Meanwhile, Isko's fellow Career boys shrunk back in the most cowardly, unmanly manner possible. Rizal, despite his young age, was already 5 feet 9 inches, and about as beefy as his brother.

The damn giant-ness, which could only plausibly come from steroids, was literally genetic in the Barrius family. Even if most of the family were genuinely nice people, they had enough strength to snap the average person in half.

"Thanks, bud! I was just about to go down to the corner store to get the last things to complete it," Isko noted, voice full of enthusiasm, as he rubbed his younger brother on the head. He turned to his friends. "It's fine if you don't wanna come—you'll probably hear the end-result of my project anyways," he said, giving a booming, hearty laugh.

The two Barrius boys then rushed out of the Tribute Academy with all the subtlety of a filing cabinet crashing through the front window of a china shop, albeit with a bit more direction. This was how the trio of Barrius boys generally lived their lives.

Also, in an excitable, forgetful manner. Isko and Rizal **completely** forgot to get their middle brother, Jejomar, for their escapades. Oh well.

Soon enough, the two excitable boys were barreling into the front door of the corner store. The man at the register jumped about a foot in the air at the sudden intrusion. He stared at the door with wide eyes, looking like he was going to piss himself, at sight of the two beefy boys.

"There's only about two hundred dollars in the register!" the man shrieked, cowering, getting as far away from the register as the counter surrounding him would allow.

"That's cool, I guess," Isko noted with a somewhat confused smile, as he and his brother stepped further into the store.

The manager, at that moment, chose to rush out of the employee's back room because of the commotion. She had a tazer in her hand, but relaxed when she looked at the usual sight of the Barrius boys. They—particularly Boom—often frequented her establishment.

"God damn it, this is the third time this week," she grumbled under her breath, giving a sigh.

"Hello, Miss Manager!" the brothers exclaimed in unison, happily waving at the woman, who lamely raised her hand in acknowledgement. They then moved their way through a small aisle of the store, chatting, looking for the specific materials Isko needed.

The manager glowered at the cowering man at the register, giving a sigh. "I'll send you your check by tomorrow," she told him curtly. The man nodded frantically, eyes never leaving the sight of the two giants, and rushed out of the store, tripping over himself.

"Good thing I still kept those flyers for a new job opening…" the woman muttered, shaking her head, as she stepped behind the counter to take over the register duties.

The two boys were oblivious to the entire ordeal, only intent on their current search. After another five minutes, Isko's eyes brightened, catching sight of the last of the items he needed. The two rushed to the register, almost bulldozing down the two rows of shelves on each side of them. Isko quickly paid for his materials, and the two bolted out of the storefront with a cheerful goodbye to the woman.

Before long, Isko was sitting in a corner of the Tribute Academy's courtyard, his little brother keeping an eye out. They didn't want anyone else nearby—especially if they were intent to stop them.

Isko's hands moved deftly and professionally, despite their size. He added components every which way on the odd-looking item in his hands. Finally, he attached a cord that was three yards in length to the head of the object.

"Alright, let's set this up, and get a nice, safe view," Isko told his brother with a wide grin. Quickly, the two were in the middle of the thankfully empty courtyard, Isko setting the item down.

He took out a lighter from his pocket, and lit the very end of the cord. Then, the Barrius boys ran to the side of the Academy, peaking their heads around the corner. It would provide great cover, and they could still see the end result of Isko's little project.

When the flame was almost where the cord met the project, Isko gave the brightest, most shit-eating grin imaginable. "Boom," he stated.

And it did just that.

The explosion was **big**, and it was **loud**. The building seemed to quiver. Debris flew every which way, catapulting across the entire courtyard, some pieces managing to land on the roof. There was a small fire where Boom's explosive project had just been, and a lot of scorch marks on the pavement.

Boom, meanwhile, looked like Christmas had come early. His little brother was yelling about how **cool** the explosion had been, jumping in place excitedly.

Their excitement was short-lived, however. At that moment, two harried women exited the Academy, looking furious.

One was Jovlyn Barrius—their mother, and one of the Trainers at the Academy. The other was Riyo Sato—the founder of the Tribute Academy, and the Victor of the 14th Annual Hunger Games, herself.

"ISKO BOOM BARRIUS!" their mother roared, imposing figure looking particularly menacing. "AND NOT YOU **TOO**, RIZAL!"

"IT'S **ALWAYS** EXPLOSIVES WITH YOU! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO JUST USE YOUR CLUB?!" Riyo screeched, stomping forwards, her long hair billowing behind her. She looked ready to skewer Boom alive.

Eshana Phoenix stuck her head out of a window, watching two physically imposing boys sprint away from the Academy, two furious women on their heels.

"Ah, that explains the noise…" she murmured, only vaguely interested, before she decided to step in for Riyo as Head Trainer for the next few minutes. After all, she distinctly heard the maniacal cackling of Zie Raquelle down the hallway…

* * *

><p><strong>Calisto Cadbury, 16, District 6<strong>

In a dark room lay three teenagers in a heap, on the floor. They were surrounded by various pillows and blankets, sleeping soundly despite their awkward positions, still fully-dressed from yesterday night.

The girl of the trio then gave a groan, stirring from her slumber. Her brown eyes looked blearily around, in the dark, before noting the two boys next to her.

She wriggled out of the cocoon of teenage limbs and blankets, standing over her two best friends. With a growing smirk, she marched straight to the window of Eirik's room, and ripped open the curtains.

"Rise and shine, boys!" she chirped loudly, making sure her voice encompassed the entire room.

Calisto watched in amusement as the two yelped and cursed and groaned from their positions on the floor.

"It wasn't my fault, I swear!" the dark-skinned blonde boy yelped loudly, shielding his face with his arms, in a vain attempt to get rid of the brightness.

"Fuck, just five more minutes," the brunette boy grumbled, burying his face in the blonde's chest, waving a hand in a shooing motion lazily.

"Wakey wakey, Eirik, Gavin!" Calisto said loudly, going over to awaken them. "It's a new day, so that means there's a new adventure waiting to happen!"

"I need some sugar to face the god-awful morning," Eirik grumbled, passing a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up on end.

"And a kiss would be nice, too," Gavin added with a small smile, opening up one of his eyes to gaze up at the girl.

"That's what I **implied**, Sunshine," Eirik drawled, rolling his eyes, flopping up into a sitting position.

"Geeze, I feel like I'm spoiling you two…" Calisto grumbled good-naturedly. However, she still bent down to kiss both of the boys. Right after, the two boys shared a kiss.

"Alright, I think I'm energized enough to do more stupid, insane bullshit," Eirik noted, stretching out his thin limbs.

"A lazy bum like you being **energized**? This must be a good day ahead of us, then," Calisto teased, ruffling his hair. He gave a whine, batting away her hand, and she laughed.

"Well, we **did** manage to break into the Tailor through the roof, last night…" the dark-skinned boy noted, a wide grin unfurling across his face.

"Which was damn lucky, mind you. Your plan didn't really help us much at all, mister-super-genius-planner. Things went south quickly," Eirick drawled, standing up and trying to organize his hair into something somewhat acceptable.

"Hehehe…Whoops. YOLO," Calisto said, wide smile in place, as she gave a small shrug unabashedly.

"The good thing was that we didn't get caught by the Peacekeepers," Gavin noted, a lopsided grin on his face, brown eyes shining. "We managed to pull off that stunt, so I say The Three Musketeers' mission was a success!"

At his exclamation, Calisto pulled the boys in for a victory high-five and hug.

"So, what're we doing next, Miss Leeroy Jenkins?" the brunette boy asked languidly, as the trio left his room via his window.

"I wanna climb up another roof!" Calisto exclaimed, brown eyes gleaming, as she gave her patented million-volt smile.

"Any ideas for location?" the dark-skinned boy asked, already looking like he was planning the stunt.

Evidently, she did. The girl dragged them excitedly to a square, two-story building that housed some type of shoe shop. The building was plain, but she took them to the side of it. There, the boys noted that the bricks and ledges made it perfect for climbing up.

"You've already had this planned out," Eirik deadpanned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Calisto gave a cheeky grin. "For a week already. Scouted out the place myself."

"How…?" the other boy wondered aloud, somewhat awed. "We're usually with you all the time…"

"I have my ways," she sing-songed, giving them a wink. "Kiss me for good luck?"

The two boys quickly pecked her on the lips, like she requested. However, Eirik still looked like he had his doubts.

"I don't know, Calisto…" he muttered, a frown on his face. Although, this wasn't a rare occurrence; he was the more reluctant, worrying member of their trio. "It's two stories, unlike the Tailor…"

"I'll be **fine**," she reassured him, with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Apparently, bleeding everywhere wasn't something she considered as an outcome for her little scheme.

Because right when she got on the roof, she looked down over the edge, waving at her best-friends-slash-boyfriends. And at that moment, the ledge gave out on her. She ended up falling two stories, nicking her head along the way.

Calisto was now currently her side, with a head wound that was bleeding far much more than it hurt.

"Oh my god!" "Calisto, are you okay?!" The two boys rushed towards her, faces pale, babbling up a storm.

"She's not fucking okay, she's **bleeding**!" Eirik spit at his friend, gesturing wildly at Calisto's head wound.

"Oh my god, look at all the blood! She's gonna **die**!" the other boy wailed, pale despite his dark skin, grasping at his blonde hair.

"Boys…Boys, I'm fine," Calisto muttered, feeling only a bit bruised and lightheaded.

"Shit, I fucking knew this was a bad idea!" Eirik crowed, looking around wildly, not knowing what to do.

"She's too **young** to die!" his dark-skinned companion said hysterically, voice jumping in pitch, looking like he was ready to burst into dramatic tears.

"Um, guys? I'm fine, **really**. Honestly," Calisto tried to re-iterate, squinting at the two in confusion. "Calm the fuck down."

"We need to—We need to calm the fuck down. We can't think like this," Eirik told the other boy, taking him by the shoulders firmly.

"Hospital! There's a hospital nearby!" the blonde exclaimed, waving his hands around, like he was trying to pluck words from the air. "She can be saved!"

"Great thinking!" Eirik cried, before kissing his fellow male squarely, completely ignoring their third friend.

"You guys, I don't need to go to the **hospital**. Just take me back home…" Calisto muttered, in complete exasperation, trying to stem the flow of blood with her hand.

Gavin and Eirik ended up whisking Calisto to the nearby hospital, despite her exasperated protests. Oddly enough, it turned out that their hysterical hollering managed to somehow summon **Sirona freaking Minerals**, District Six's Victor, to heal Calisto.

"Overall, she's just a bit bruised. No concussion or serious injuries. The head wound was very shallow, and only looked more serious than it was. Head wounds tend to be like that, generally," Sirona explained calmly to the two previously hysterical boys.

They both sighed heavily in relief, as one. Calisto sat off to the side, rolling her eyes in fond exasperation. She was on the atypical cot most clinics and hospitals held, her head patched up.

"Although, I **will** commend you on your response time…" the woman noted with a small, lopsided smile. She turned to look at her patient. "You're very fortunate to have people that love you so dearly, Miss Calisto," she told the girl, her voice warm, and just a slight bit wistful.

"Thanks," the teen girl said with a grin. "I wouldn't trade these two morons for anything in the world. They're the probably the **best** best friends— and boyfriends—a girl could ever ask for."

* * *

><p><strong>Gavin Cox, 18, District 5<strong>

When Gavin Cox awoke that morning, the first thought in his head was "_I hope my parents are home_" followed swiftly by "_They probably left a note_".

He blearily got up, almost falling flat on his face; his long limbs were tangled magnificently in his blankets. Luckily, he didn't.

Crisis averted, Gavin stretched, standing at his whole 5 feet 11 inch glory. He languidly dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans. He passed a hand through his messy brown hair, moving most of it over to one side of his head with his fingers.

Eh, good enough. It's not like his parents were ever home to fuss about his appearance, anyways.

Gavin dressed in a laidback, casual way all the time, despite how well-off he was. He never felt the need to really impress anyone with his looks or clothes or wealth. One of the positives of his parents never being around was that he never got in the habit of being stuffy or proper, and could just…Stay comfortable.

And man, he loved his comfy clothes. If he was any more enamored with them, he'd just wear his pajamas everywhere.

The teen slowly meandered his way into his kitchen, looking at the fridge door. Yup, there was a note, right there. Guess that confirmed that his parents were working.

With a lazy shrug, Gavin opened the fridge to pour some milk in a bowl for his cereal. He also noted the shrinking contents of the refrigerator; he should probably go out to buy groceries soon.

Plus, some of those pre-cooked meals that Mrs. Himeldecker made. Her stuff was tasty, affordable, and she allowed him to take back pots full of the stuff. All he had to do for lunch and dinner most days was heat up the leftovers, then store them in the fridge. Easy peasy.

As he slowly padded over to the barren kitchen table, Gavin pondered over the last time he had actual food cooked by his mother. "Let's see…" he muttered distractedly, as he sat on his usual spot. "They work Monday through Friday, but they've been having problems the past two weeks at The Dam, plus…Add that togetheeeer…3 weeks and four days. Huh."

Gavin munched on his cereal contemplatively. Considering that his parents usually had to rush to their jobs at The Dam, and only left him money and the occasional groceries in the fridge, it wasn't surprising. The Dam was very old, and the workers constantly had to attend to problems that cropped up; it was a very important part of District Five, since it held their water supply, after all.

Actually, now that he thought on it, three weeks wasn't so bad! Ever since he hit eighteen, his parents considered him capable enough to be fine alone, even if he still wished they were home more often...

Well, he was doing pretty swell, if he did say so himself! Except for the fact that he didn't know the first thing about cooking, and kept burning everything he tried making.

"Ah, God bless pre-cooked meals and cereal, how I love thee…" Gavin noted with a fond smile, as he washed the dishes.

With nothing else to really do in his house, Gavin put his keys and some money in his pocket, and exited his very picturesque home. He walked down the front yard, past the white picket fence that surrounded the Cox home.

Then, Gavin darted across the streets of Five in reckless abandon, without a care in the world. Nothing ever happened to him when he did so, anyways; he was just too lucky and **nice** to ever get mugged. Plus, it helped that he was tall, held a bit of scruff on his face, and was pretty _handy_ when it came to a fistfight.

Gavin gave a few chuckles at the pun he thought in his head. Before long, he was making his way towards the pristine, yet very dull and cookie-cutter, Haycock house.

Gavin went around, peeking into the kitchen window, hoping that his best friend was up and already having breakfast. She always took a long time to wake up, so he cultivated the habit of looking through windows before having to enter the front door, like any other normal person.

As he suspected, Lindsey was sitting at the kitchen table. She was bleary-eyed, her long, blonde hair pulled up in a haphazard ponytail. She was downing a cup of coffee—almost as if it was a shot of alcohol, and she was at a bar.

The girl jolted in her seat when Gavin gave a playful tap on the windowpane. She gave a bright smile at the sight of her childhood friend, and quickly rushed out to meet him.

"Hey, Gavin! What's up?" Lindsey asked, blue eyes shining, as she looked up at him.

"Nothing much. Parents still working," Gavin said with a shrug, giving her a lopsided grin. "I was wondering if you wanted to _hang_."

He raised his eyebrows when he stressed the word, a smirk tugging at his lips. Lindsey darted a look over her shoulder, almost as if she was expecting her father to burst out of the door to question them.

"Well, we haven't done _that_ in what, a week?" she answered, with a small laugh.

"Five days, actually."

She gave him a sly grin. "Five days is too long. Let's go!" she exclaimed, grabbing his hand and rushing down the street.

One very excited, playful jog later, the two teens were standing in front of their favorite place to _hang_.

"Ah, the scent of sweat, sins, and tears," Gavin sighed dreamily, as the duo entered District Five's largest casino. "Like my bedroom!" he joked—which his best friend only responded with a hearty swat to the shoulder. "Yeesh, kidding, kidding!"

"Just gimme some cash for that Black Jack table," Lindsey demanded, proffering her hand to him, a fierce gleam in her eye. "Momma Lindsey needs a new pair of shoes for her Reaping dress."

Once he did so, she rushed over to try her hand at gambling through cards. Of course, she ended up losing all the money he gave her. When she fumed and complained at him over the injustice, he calmed her down, promising to get her those shoes she wanted.

The lanky boy casually strode over to the table full of intimidating-and-possibly-intoxicated men, bright grin on his face. "Hey, buds—can I play?" he asked, chipper, taking a seat at an empty stool before they could object.

The men shared looks with one another, oddly pale. They muttered lowly amongst themselves, shooting wide-eyed looks at Gavin. Who, for his part, simply sat there with a friendly smile on his face. He overheard their whispers, but tried to seem like he didn't; his growing, cocky grin kind of spoiled that image.

"_Luckiest Guy in Five, he calls himself_."

"_Never loses a gamble_."

"_Kid's what, eighteen? How's that even possible_?"

"_He's got God's fortune when it comes to gambling_."

Suffice to say, Gavin Cox had to quickly run out of the casino before he got mobbed. However, Lindsey Haycock got those new shoes she wanted, and Gavin was still confident in his luck and gambling proficiency.

* * *

><p><strong>Clovis Essenerus, 17, District 10<strong>

One tall, intimidating teen boy stalked the halls of his school. He glared and snarled at everyone; most shrank back, trying to seem unnoticeable. A meek girl trailed behind him, head ducked down, trembling slightly.

**No** one wanted to get on Clovis Essenerus' bad side, or catch his attention. He had no qualms with beating the shit out of you—whether to get something from you, make you fear him more, or because you looked at him funny. Women, and all those brave enough to stand up to him, got the worst treatment from him. And God forbid if you happened to be a girl who stood up to him…

That's what happened to Shannon, Clovis' current "girlfriend". She was a soft-spoken girl who had firmly stepped between him and a cowering twelve year old. She'd mustered the courage to tell him to stop harassing the little ones.

And she paid the price for her actions. Now, she was pretty much his servant.

Even the adults turned a blind eye to his actions. Clovis was built like a damn truck, in his 6 feet 1 inch, malicious glory. He didn't give a fuck if you were older and wiser, and technically held authority over him. He had no respect for adults or authority figures, and thusly, he was as aggressive and malicious to them as he was to his peers.

Plus, the entire deal that Clovis was loaded, in terms of District Ten. His parents co-owned a cheese factory, where a good number of people worked. It raked in quite a bit a bit of cash from the Capitol.

Anyone that's ever met the Essenerus family would feel baffled that Clovis was related to them. They were all kind, and on the short side; he was aggressive, and towering. If the family hadn't held such a strong resemblance to one another, one would think Clovis was adopted.

Clovis stopped suddenly, in the middle of the hallway. The entire hall held its breath, paralyzed, wondering who was the bully's next target.

The bully stomped over to a dark-skinned boy who was chatting happily with a redheaded girl, obviously oblivious to Clovis' advancement.

"**Maybe** if you give me yer money, I won't stop yer chattin'…**Forcefully**," Clovis threatened, cracking his knuckles for emphasis. Shannon quivered behind him.

The boy blinked up at him, a genial smile still on his face. His friend beside him, however, looked livid.

"And **maybe** if you back the fuck off, I won't punch you…**Forcefully**," the girl spit up at him, throwing his words back in his face.

"Mattie, no!" the boy next to her hissed, tugging her arm, keeping her from getting in the bully's face.

"He threatened you, Bart, for just fuckin' **talkin'!**" she crowed at him, before turning to the imposing boy once more, a sneer on her face. "What, are we so **lowly** that we can't even fuckin' **talk** in the presence of the cheese factory prince?"

Clovis' general look of '_forever pissed off_' morphed into one of '_I'm going to beat you to death_'. He snarled at Mattie, akin to that of a rabid animal, and brought his fist back.

Mattie shoved Bart away, and sidestepped Clovis' punch. He ended up hitting the wall.

Clovis cursed colorfully, nursing his bruised fist. The two friends ended up using this opening to bolt away from the enraged bully.

"COME BACK HERE!" Clovis roared, bulldozing after the duo. His sites were zeroed in on Mattie, as if he was a rampaging bull attracted to her red hair. "I'M GONNA KILL YOU DEAD, BITCH!"

Sharon jogged after her abusive boyfriend. When she found him, he was alone in the middle of the courtyard, head turning every which way wild wildly, trying to find his target.

He gave a long string of curses, having lost them. That wasn't surprising; Clovis was aggressive, but also very stupid. It was child's play for Mattie and Bart to end up tricking Clovis, and escape unscathed.

Clovis caught sight of Shannon, and stormed his way over to her.

To take out his pent-up energy and frustration from not being able to beat down the hot-tempered redhead that stood up to him, he did what he usually did to his girlfriend and little sister.

He beat her.

* * *

><p><strong>Yohan Freesia, 16, District 6<strong>

A teenage boy stalked through the streets of Six, sneer on his face. He bumbled through the twisting labyrinth of the District, peddling young children out of their pocket money like most bullies did.

How unoriginal.

Then the boy heard pathetic whines in an alleyway, and diverted his course into said alleyway. There, he found an abandoned litter of puppies.

With a gleam in his eyes, the boy took out a pocketknife, and stomped over to the poor creatures.

Oh, hell no. This lumbering moron wasn't thinking of doing **that**…Was he?

Apparently, he was. But the teen boy was doing something much worse than expected. Instead of just killing a puppy like a power-hungry meathead, he started to _skin it alive_.

Mayday, mayday, future serial killer in our midst! Ah, the sweet, sweet irony…

When the puppy was already limp in the ferocious boy's hands, a shadow lunged at him from behind.

Five minutes later, Yohan Freesia cleaned his gloved hands with a rag, tossing it on the limp body of the psychopathic bully who'd decided to kill puppies on **his** watch. The bully's body was arranged neatly and serendipitously in the alleyway, behind an overflowing trash bin.

Yohan packed up his supplies—the small circuit box, wires, and length of rope—and hid it once more on his person. All of the money the other boy had peddled from his victims was safely on Yohan's person, as well.

Well, that went surprisingly well. He didn't even need to take out his hidden knife. Although, he would've wished for there to be less blood, because of the casualty…

Oh well. Now District Six had to deal with one less person that abused the weak. That makes is 15 truly awful people that Yohan's delivered justice to. Probably more than any Peacekeeper has done in their tenure…

Honestly, he could understand older teens picking on younger children. That was pretty much part of the unofficial job description of being a bully. The money stealing? Sure. Fights? Alright. Extreme physical abuse? Awful, but still sadly common.

But _killing puppies_? The **horror**!

And not even just killing puppies—even though that was bad enough, and almost ludicrously evil, like a fictional villain—but _skinning them alive_!

Really, that was the scraping the barrel, right there. Babies were the weakest of the weak, because it was a rare chance for a baby **anything** to be able to defend themselves from slaughter.

Yohan bent down and gently gathered the whining litter of puppies in his arms, taking a long look at the dark, dreary alleyway.

"Justice has been served," he whispered, before giving a small look down at the wriggling masses in his arms. "I'll find you a nice, rich house to adopt you, alright?" he told the puppies, as if they could understand him.

So Yohan Freesia walked the streets of Six, arms full of a litter of puppies. And let me say, have you ever seen a 5 feet 9 inch half-Asian boy with patched clothing and a creepy, dark look on his face, walk down the street with his arms overflowing with puppies? No?

Well, it was incredibly odd. Which explained the blatant stares Yohan was getting.

Yohan was almost tempted to start shoving puppies onto the arms of random passerby, saying "_And you get a puppy, and you get a puppy, and __**all**__ of you get a puppy!_" with over-the-top cheer. Just so it would creep people out more, seeing the usually dark, socially-inept boy start acting like that Oprah woman from the Capitol.

But he refrained. That wouldn't fit in with his usual, darkly comical character. He had a **reputation** to uphold.

Yohan ended up going to random houses that looked moderately well-off. He'd put down a puppy on the doorstep, ring or knock on the door, and then bolt. Almost like a prank, or a bastardized version of Santa Claus.

Well, the District **did** need a little cheer, since it was almost time for the annual Reaping…

Yohan hid around the corner of the last home he visited, snickering silently at the conversation that broken out from his little 'gift'.

"Oooooh, a puppy!" exclaimed a girl.

"Calisto, put the damn puppy down," groused the grumpy voice of a teen boy.

"I dunno, I've always wanted a puppy…" said another male voice, this one jovial.

"Oh god damn it, not you too, Gavin!" exclaimed the grumpy boy.

"Hey, you think we can use this little guy for our future plans?" asked the girl.

"No. You're going to get the poor thing hurt from your zany schemes. I'm putting my damn foot down," said grouchy-boy, who seemed to be the most intelligent amongst the trio of friends.

"Haha, well it looks like our little pup isn't…!" said the jovial boy.

Soon, the sound of urination, one cursing teen boy, and two other laughing teens filled the silence. Yohan smirked as he slowly snuck away.

Yohan slunk off back to the slums of District Six. His hands were stuffed deeply in his pockets, to stifle the cheery clink of coins in his pockets, and he ducked his head down. You never know who was desperate enough to steal from their fellow starving man, in these streets.

Soon enough, Yohan noted that he was being followed. He stiffened, walking at a slightly quicker pace, one eye on his destination and one eye on his surroundings.

But rather than a mugger, he got a genial call of "comrade!" and a hearty clap on the shoulder. Yohan relaxed his stiff posture as his friend Kolo bounded next to him, his usual grin on his tanned face.

Kolo Mita. Playboy, tanned, clean-cut, towering, muscular, rich lower class. And a loyal 'comrade', who talked endlessly with Yohan over one day creating an idealistic, perfect world.

It was the oddest damn friendship, since they were pretty much polar opposites, if not for that last part. But that last part made a strong bond between the two 16 year old boys. They both wanted a world without poverty or weakness, full of fairness and justice.

Yohan had considered making him the Robin to his Batman, as it were, but there was one problem: Kolo wasn't as driven. He didn't have Yohan's exact brand of justice. And Yohan certainly never told him of his odd, somewhat genius, vigilante bullshit shenanigans.

Because for all he knew, Kolo could turn into Gotham's Police Force on his ass. That, or take over the role of Batman. Since he, y'know, was more fitting for the part, strength-wise. And looks-wise, height-wise, wealth-wise…

Huh, it really **was** a miracle that they were such close friends…

Yohan blocked out Kolo's babbling, all the way to his ramshackled home. Then Kolo bid him farewell, and bounded off somewhere. Probably to pick up chicks.

Yohan entered his home, making sure to re-lock the door behind him properly. He ghosted towards the kitchen, his eyes passing over the family portraits that hung on the walls, like he did every day. And like every time, he turned a bit somber at the sight of his dead parent's wedding photo.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he entered the small kitchen. He was surprised to see the dusty blonde mop of his friend Avery—who was pretty much his sister, at this point, since she stayed at the Freesia home almost daily to escape her abusive parents—sitting at one of the rickety chairs. Yohan's thirteen year old sister, Lily, literally jumped in her chair when he entered the room.

"Yohan!" Lily exclaimed, eyes wide, looking like she was torn between grinning and frowning.

"Hey," Avery noted with a grin, a questioning look in her eyes.

Yohan smiled at them—one of his true, genuine smiles— as he took out all the money from his pockets, laying it on the table.

"As you can see, my little batty gambit worked. How about some soup for dinner?"

An hour later, the three were sitting at the worn kitchen table, talking warmly and eating their watered-down soup with a small piece of Tessera-grain bread.

Justice never tasted so good.


	6. Intros: One Day

**AN**: I hope you all had happy holidays! I was busy with family, cooking, food, and video games. Whoops. But I'm back, and churning out these Intros!

Some of these were tricky for me to write. I struggled a bit with characterization, so if these feel subpar compared to prior chapters, that's probably why. Also, I feel like I should bump up the rating because of Vamiya alone…

The Tributes this chapter are**: Ginny, Devon, Malcolm, Lex, Liseli, **and** Vamiya**. Also, warning: language, girls kissing, self doubt, argumentative smartasses, punching. And underage sex, sexual acts, creepy seduction from a young teenager, mental instability (all from Vamiya).

* * *

><p>Intros: One Day (until Reaping)<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Regina Gabriella 'Ginny' Saunders, 18, District 1<strong>

A lone girl jogged amongst the tidy, paved streets of District One. The sun was barely rising in the sky, slowly showering the world with a soft glow of light, slowly bleeding the sky with mesmerizing colors. Even amongst the barren morning, the long-legged teen wasn't concerned about being alone. She could defend herself, if the need arose.

The girl eventually reached the very edge of her province, stopping before the fence. She took a moment to stare up at the towering structure, wondering if she could ever go past the fence to the fortune that lay beyond. After all, the Capitol was just a skip away…

Ginny gave a small shake of her head, and prepared to jog down the way she came.

On the way back to her considerably well-groomed home, she noted the stirrings of citizens in their homes. By the time she was back in her room, it was already 7 in the morning. Seven miles by 7 a.m.; her usual routine.

She stepped into the bathroom attached to her bedroom. Without much preamble, she shrugged off her jogging clothing and stepped into the shower. She quickly washed away all the sweat she accumulated on her skin, not bothering to go through the large hassle of properly preening and washing her hair. It went down to her damn waist, and was a pain to shampoo and dry.

Ginny stepped out of the shower, quickly drying her body with a soft towel and dressing in sensible clothing for the day. She swiftly parted her hair, and with deft fingers, weaved her signature two braids.

By the time it hit 7:30 sharp, Ginny was finishing a quick breakfast with her parents. Once the last bit of her glass of juice was drained, she stood to leave.

"Where are you going, Ginny?" asked her father, Franklin David Saunders, inquisitively. A mug of coffee was halfway to his mouth.

"To the Tribute Academy," she answered curtly, as she rushed over to place her dirty dishes in the sink. "Since we don't have school today."

"Regina Gabriella—tomorrow is the Reaping!" her mother, Allison, gaped. "Whatever could you **possibly** learn in one day? Shouldn't you stay here, and spend some time with us…?"

The teen quirked an eyebrow at her parents, crossing her arms sassily. "Most days of my life, you two'll do anything to get my energetic ass out of the house, so I don't start bouncing off the walls. And **now** you want me stay cooped up at home…?"

Her father disguised an amused cough behind his cup of coffee, saying a small remark about watching her language. Her mother, meanwhile, wilted slightly at her daughter's completely true words.

The woman gave a concerned bite of her lip. "Oh…Well, I suppose you can't keep your friends at the Training Academy waiting…" acquiesced the woman who mirrored her daughters looks, bar hair color.

"Nope—Especially Lilyanne," Ginny agreed promptly. Inside, she was glad that her mother was the type of person that gave up too easily. It made Ginny's life much easier, in many respects.

Her father mumbled something about "_troublesome skateboarding lesbian teens_" into his coffee, as his daughter darted out of the kitchen and towards the entryway of their home. At said entryway, there was a haphazard pile of protective padding, a large blue helmet, and three pairs of tennis shoes.

Ginny yanked on a random pair of shoes, slid and strapped on her helmet, and grabbed the skateboard that was perched on the wall. She completely bypassed the padding—something her worrisome mother usually harked on her to wear. But Ginny didn't need it, really; she'd been skateboarding since she was 8, and already knew all the dangers and maneuvers when it came to skating.

Ginny exited her home, lazily skating in a languid wave pattern along the sidewalk. After all, her destination was only a few yards from her own front door.

The girl kick flipped on the small steps of her neighbor's door. She smoothly kicked up her board, propping it on her hand, and gave a small series of distinct raps on the front door.

Soon, she heard the muffled voice of her favorite person in the world, before the door swung open.

"Ginny, hey!" said the girl with a pretty, heart-shaped face. She quickly pulled back her straight, white-blonde hair in its signature ponytail, a bright smile on her face. "Parents hold you up?"

Ginny grinned, quickly dipping her head down to kiss the girl who was her girlfriend, best friend, and neighbor since childhood. "Hey Lilyanne—and, yeah, they did. Mostly just Mom, though; you know how worried she gets."

Lilyanne Noelle Dunston gave a chiming laugh. "But she let's everything slide, anyways."

"Yup," Ginny noted, amused, before jerking her head back towards the sidewalk. "Let's head on out. Victor Mediah's going to announce who's going to Volunteer tomorrow."

Lilyanne gave a small sigh, a sad look crossing her face momentarily, replaced quickly by an irritated pout. "You better carry me or something, then," she said, motioning to her left leg.

Lilyanne's left leg was in a thick cast, currently broken from a skating accident about a week and a half ago. This had caused a small spat between the usually tight-knit couple, mostly consisting of Ginny reprimanding her girlfriend for her love of taking risks.

As such, Lilyanne's been unable to move around quickly, much less skate. Which makes her very irritable; she's loves skateboarding and is just as energetic as Ginny.

Ginny tilted her head slightly, staring at her girlfriend, thinking over the best course of action. They were already running late, and the Tribute Academy opened at 8 a.m. Victor Mediah was a very punctual man, and told all the regular students that he was going to announce the names chosen to Volunteer promptly after the Academy opened for the day.

Ginny stepped off the steps of the building, and got on her skateboard. Lilyanne looked hurt, at the sight of her girlfriend seemingly getting ready to leave her.

But then Ginny spread her arms, looking pointedly at her girlfriend. "Come on, then. This'll be great practice for when we get married, and I carry you in our new house," the dark-haired girl said, giving a cheeky smile to the gaping blonde.

Tentatively, the blonde hobbled over, closing the door behind her. Ginny swiftly bent down and swept the shorter girl in her arms, bridal style. The same cheeky smile was on her face, while her girlfriend blushed, arms wrapped around her neck tightly.

"Get comfy, Lils, because I don't want to drop you at any point," Ginny intoned, as her girlfriend squirmed slightly to get comfortable. Throughout this entire time, Ginny's arms held strong, and she was still perfectly balanced on her board, never wavering even once.

Once the blonde assented that she was ready, Ginny gave a wide grin, and quickly sped off down the sidewalk. Her girlfriend laughed and whooped, as Ginny masterfully maneuvered them through the streets, the wind rushing in their faces as they zipped towards the Tribute Academy.

* * *

><p><strong>Devon Mahone, 18, District 1<strong>

From the moment Devon awoke, he went through his daily routine flawlessly. Wake up at half past 6, take a quick shower, change, comb his hair. He would primp himself, everything picture-perfect and proper.

Then, he would go down to the kitchen to start the coffee machine, set the table, and help make breakfast. Of course, he would naturally make his mother's preferred breakfast first—egg white omelet with diced tomatoes, with a cup of coffee that held half a teaspoon of vanilla and two creams.

His mother would then croon at him, smoothing down his perfectly-combed hair, telling him honestly of how wonderful he's made everything. He'd then promptly go to wake up his step-father, step-brother, and half-sister to tell them the food was ready.

He would be polite at the table, following the high etiquette his mother drilled in him since birth. He would smile and please his family, calm, even in the face of his detested step-father, who would jab at him passive-aggressively.

Then Devon would happily make small talk with his adored siblings, before toting the family's dishes to the sink, to the ever-present delight of his mother. Then, he'd inform his family that he would be off with his girlfriend.

"Where will you two be heading today?" Sansa Mahone asked him, eyes calculating, as her son bent down to give her his usual kiss on the cheek.

"To the Tribute Academy," Devon answered promptly, brightening at his mother's pleased smile.

"Why'd you need to go today, Devon? You're already super big and strong," little Kalia piped up from her perch on a nearby couch, bouncing up towards her half-brother.

"Because each day of training will only make me bigger and stronger," Devon intoned, giving a smile down at the 8 year old, and a fond rub on the head. She giggled, shaking her blonde pigtails, brown eyes shining.

"That's my Devon. Such a hardworking gentleman," Sansa noted proudly, looking up at her son, straightening in her 5 feet 2 inch glory. "With your cool head and charm, it shouldn't be a problem to wrap your future District partner around your little finger."

Devon colored, giving such a bright grin that he almost seemed to glow. It meant a lot to him that his mother praised him, not to mention was so assured that he'd be chosen by Victors Mediah and Angel to Volunteer tomorrow.

"Of course, Mother. Just as you'll expect. Everything will be perfect," Devon told her lovingly, even as his step-father muffled a snort in the background.

With encouragement from his ever wonderful siblings, Devon left their well-groomed home, on the way to visit his girlfriend Esmeralda Platina. He always arrived at her home in a timely manner so they could head together to the Tribute Academy, to meet up with the rest of their friends.

Before long, he was in front of Esmeralda's doorstep. He strode up to the front door, rung the doorbell, and waited, arms held behind his back.

Soon, a blonde-haired teen girl with tanned skin opened the door, beaming up at Devon. He greeted her with a warm smile, before dipping down to give her a quick kiss.

"You look lovely. How are you this morning?" he asked her courteously, as he always did every morning.

"Good—a bit nervous and excited," Esmeralda told him with a smile, seeming a bit jittery as she stepped out of her home.

"I am too," he admitted, as he took her hand in his, meandering down the street with her. Devon gave a shaky exhale of breath—the first external sign showing how truly nervous he was.

"I…Hope I'm good enough. I've trained since the Academy opened, but…" here, he bit he lip, eyes distant.

He remembered all that led up to this point—his father leaving them, his mother being devastated, her remarrying the rich and shallow Matheu Trinati, training the very day the Tribute Academy was established, training with his best friends, getting together with Esmeralda.

This was all leading up to one event; entering the Hunger Games, and winning. But could he actually do it? Could he be good enough to be able to Volunteer, much less win the Hunger Games? How could he earn that honor, when he could barely earn his own mother's love—

Esmeralda reached up to place a kiss on his jaw, pulling him from his dark spiral of conflicted, self-loathing thoughts.

"I may not want to Volunteer, wanting something more than a possible death in the Games…But I **know** that Victor Mediah will see your strength and worth, and you'll Volunteer and win," Esmeralda told him firmly, her dark brown eyes showing the depth of her emotion, as she gripped even tighter to his hand.

Devon let out a breath, and gave her a small grin. "Thanks. I needed that."

Before the couple could say anything else, they were almost bowled over by a dark-haired girl riding a skateboard, who was carrying a blonde girl in her arms. However, Devon reacted in time to sidestep the incoming couple, pulling his girlfriend away and shielding her.

Esmeralda let out a shaky breath, clutching at her abdomen, as she stared down the street. "I don't think you're the only one that's nervous about being able to Volunteer…" she noted.

The two hastened their pace, and were soon in front of the Tribute Academy, joining the crowd of hopeful teens that were surrounding the entrance.

"Damn, everyone's in such a buzz!" exclaimed a loud voice next to Devon. He turned, and grinned at the sight of the ever-loud butcher's son, Jensen.

"Most want to see if their training will pay off or not," intoned Helius right behind Jensen, fist bumping Devon's unoccupied hand, like they normally did.

"Well, that's stupid—since Devon's going to **obviously** be chosen," Jensen boomed, a wide grin in place. "And then **I'll** be their choice for next year!"

Devon's smiled wavered slightly. He liked Jensen—he was a good friend, energetic, and fun—but sometimes his big mouth and arrogance made him question his choice in befriending the shaggy-haired blonde. Devon never liked hot-headed, brash, loud-mouthed Career trainees, because he was the exact opposite of them.

Then again, he never liked many people in general, even if he never exactly showed it. People were two-faced. Hell, Devon always felt unsure of other people— simply because he never knew when people befriended him for who he was and could trust him, or for material reasons.

Just as Devon was about to psychoanalyze himself, the front entrance suddenly opened dramatically. There stood Victors Angel Shine and Mediah Flash, seeming so powerful and dazzling, that one could mistake them for ethereal beings.

The entire mob of teens became dead-silent.

"As promised, the results!" Mediah crowed, his voice carrying across the entire area. Beside him, his wife passed him a clipboard, giving a pretty smile to the crowd.

Everyone seemed to hold their breath, as the man's gaze flickered down to the paper in his hands.

"The runner-ups, who will Volunteer in the case of the top chosen students being unable to do so, are…Verity Hart and Helios Mayers."

A girl—who must have been Verity—gave a strangled squeal. Helios and Jensen, beside Devon, made dumbfounded noises at those results. Devon gave a small pat on Helios' shoulder, to comfort his best friend. Helios never wanted to Volunteer, only training with Devon to hang out, but was a great fighter.

"Now, our Volunteers for this year's Games are…" Angel intoned, and the married couple stretched out the seconds to build the suspense.

"Regina Gabriella Saunders and Devon Mahone," Mediah stated at last, a small smirk on his bearded face as he watched the reactions of the crowd.

Many wails of dismay and curses came from the crowd. Regina Gabriella merely snorted, but smiled as her girlfriend gave her an enthusiastic hug and exclamation in congratulations.

Devon, meanwhile, was bombarded by his friends and girlfriend. He gave a relieved smile as he was pulled into a group hug.

"As always, the Tribute Academy will be opened for today. Good luck tomorrow for the Reapings!" Mediah said loudly, to be heard across the loud crowd. Quickly, he and his wife hurried inside the building— most likely to lower the chances of them getting mobbed.

With vigor, Devon went inside and trained, to get in as much last-minute preparation as he could.

* * *

><p><strong>Malcolm Fritz, 17, District 3<strong>

District Three was a District known for their industry of technology, as well as their love of learning and their intelligence. As such, school was usually a very important affair, a majority of the students eager to learn. After all, bolstering your intelligence made you smarter, and school was a perfect place to do so.

However, schools were also a prime place for arguments and competition. Many students clashed with one another, wanting to one-up the other when it came to intelligence or wits. When it came to school, those weak, tiny, nerdy, awkward kids that made up a good percentage of the populace? They became **vicious**. Whether outright, passive-aggressively, or silently, you could bet that some time somewhere in the education system in District Three, there was a student trying to show that they were better than one or more of their peers.

One such student was trying to do so. He was trying to show that he was the most intelligent person in the room, and prove his teacher wrong.

This belligerent boy had no respect for authority figures, especially if they were unable to outwit him in an argument. In all his seventeen years, only **one** teacher had ever matched wits with him, and the man was one of the few people to ever convince the boy that he was **wrong** on certain occasions.

And the current teacher he was grilling had not yet earned his respect, or proven himself. So far, the teen considered the increasingly irritated man to be sub-par, at best.

"Just because the questions are of _theory_," Malcolm Fritz started contemptuously to his teacher, "should not allow the incorrigible disaster of students learning farfetched information! You are a man of _education_, sir—how can you stand for such poisonous, criminally incorrect drivel to end up in our precious curriculum?"

"Look, Mister Fritz," the man at the head of the room started, teeth grinding. "I don't make the curriculum, and the feasibility of these _practice questions_ was not a problem to the intelligence of student **before**—"

"But allowing something so completely incorrect to still be allowed in the curriculum in the **first** place is utter **rubbish**. It is a shame to this course!" Malcolm crowed, crossing his arms. "How could any of this be correct, in any way, shape, or form? It is a phantom of the lesson that we deserve on such a vital subject. Why would you allow for this injustice to stay lurking amongst the worksheets? Honestly, I will demand a proper answer—what say you, sir?"

During Malcolm's arrogant spiel, the teacher's face steadily grew red. Finally, the man lost his temper, and yelled at the seat in the front row that the boy sat, "_Because I said so_!"

The entire class at large gave a loud groan, many covering their faces.

Malcolm always did this—question and argue with the teacher, always trying to prove them wrong. He just always pushed and pushed… He simply gets his kicks from disagreeing with others, backing them into a corner, and getting a rise out of them.

And Heaven help the poor soul who isn't prepared with a better counter-argument than something along the lines of "_because I said so_". Because usually by that point, shit hits the fan, and Malcolm will drill on and on over how paltry such reasoning is.

"God **damn** it, Fritz!" screeched a girl with an upturned nose and straight black hair, who sat at the back of the room. "None of us have the patience to listen through any more of your stupid shit!"

Many classmates bitterly mumbled in assent, nodding and agreeing with the annoying girl. Vulca Spark was a pompous bitch, but they could agree with her on one thing: Malcolm's debates were frustrating as hell, and they were **sick** of them.

It was even **more** frustrating today, of all days. This class was the last of the day, and it was the last day of school for the week; tomorrow was the Reaping, and they had the day off.

Despite the general love of learning in District Three, having days off was a rare blessing that many cherished. Also, many would need to emotionally prepare themselves for the Reaping, and try to spend as much time as they could with their families.

But Malcolm didn't care about his classmates and their less than stellar opinions on him. He enjoyed pissing others off, and winning arguments.

Plus, his family had split off spectacularly, so he really had no family to spend the looming Reaping with. Last year, his sister Felicity got pregnant before marriage at seventeen, and was promptly disowned by his parents. After a few months, she came back begging for him to help her, dirty, beaten, and having suffered a miscarriage. Malcolm was the only family and option she had left, since she was abandoned by everyone, even her boyfriend.

Malcolm nicked a large sum of money his parents had hidden, and gave it to her, out of pity. His parents found out, and disowned him as well. But his actions saved his sister, and gave him the independence he always wanted. If only the two hadn't gotten on each others nerves so spectacularly to the point of shouting during their stint of sharing an apartment, he might have been able to spend time with at least **one** family member for today and tomorrow…

But that was the thing: Malcolm was a disowned, argumentative, pessimistic smartass. He wouldn't have even wanted to spend the Reaping with family, so the loss didn't bother him.

Just as the he was ready to start drilling his furious teacher further, the bell rang.

"Finally! The sweet, sweet bell!" Vulca screeched dramatically, throwing her hands up in the air. The entire class seemed grateful and relieved for the end of class, and thusly, of Malcolm Fritz being an irritating genius.

Malcolm simply shrugged, shooting a smirk at the fuming buffoon that was his Engineering teacher. He swiftly gathered his things, slinging his bag on his shoulder, and exited the room with long strides. He pointedly ignored his classmate's complaining, heading over to the Advanced Mathematics classroom to meet his favorite teacher.

As he poked his head into the empty classroom, Malcolm noted that Professor Kingsley should honestly stop listening to music. The old man was singing as he put away a stack of papers in his old satchel. His singing was off-key, not to mention that Malcolm found music trivial and irritating.

But of course, Amadeus Kingsley was human, and had his flaws: music was one of them.

"Ah, Malcolm, my boy!" the old man exclaimed, eyes bright, as he noted his favorite pupil in the room. "Are you ready to head home?"

The tall teen grinned down at him, towering over the wizened man at 5 feet 10 inches. "Yes, of course, Professor."

"Then let us be off!" the old man stated, and the two meandered out of the building together.

As the two walked down the street, the sun beating down on them, Professor Kingsley started to sing out-of-tune once more.

"_I'm walking on sunshiiiine, whoaaaaa! I'm walking on sunshiiiiine, whoaaaa! And don't it feel good!_" the feeble man belted, seeming almost younger from his bright, happy cadence.

Malcolm rolled his eyes fondly, a bit embarrassed. But ultimately, he didn't mind it; despite this quirk, Professor Kingsley was a truly great man that had earned his respect.

And honestly, Malcolm was lucky to be able to have someone like him to spend the day with, much less live with.

* * *

><p><strong>Lex Calder, 16, District 4<strong>

The children in District Four were restless today.

Tomorrow was the Reaping, after all. Despite the Training Center Victor Festus created, many were still worried over being chosen.

Also, others were curious on who would Volunteer. Who considered themselves strong and prepared enough to go into the Hunger Games, with the minimal amount of training they had?

The Training Center wasn't very strenuous, compared to Districts One and Two. It was very casual, and not many teens were strictly committed to a training regime. Most that attended were just kids that were curious about the place, who tried it out because it was new and a fad. It was just a movement that was gaining popularity, and most children of Four were busier helping out in their industry or playing amongst the beautiful sights of the District, than to attend the Training Center daily.

But still, the Training Center was always advertised and talked about, across Four. More and more kids started to hang out at the Training Center with their friends. Everyone was starting to warm up to the idea.

Some went out of boredom. Some went because they were urged by parents or family. Some went to learn how to protect themselves. Some went to gain an extra bit of knowledge and preparation, in case they were ever Reaped. Some went so they could meet up with friends. Some—mostly tittering fangirls— went to be able to meet with Festus Marsh in person, to actually talk to him or touch him.

And some went because they truly enjoyed it. That was a very small minority amongst the children of Four, but it was slowly, slowly growing each passing year. These few truly enjoyed fighting, who were considering Volunteering for the Hunger Games.

Lex Calder was one of these few.

The day of the Training Center's grand opening, Lex was there, ready to learn. Ready to train. Ready to fight.

Since he was young, Lex had been trained in boxing by his gruff father. Any type of brawling for sport or profit was a bit of an underground activity rink in the Districts. What could be a hobby or a way to eat for some, was a thing of passion for Lex.

And so, Lex had gone to the Training Center that first day, almost four years ago, ready to show Victor Festus his passion. There weren't any official rings, or any boxing gloves, but he still showed his stuff.

Lex's actions had sparked Festus to set up some rings, spaces for hand-to-hand combat, and an inclusion of boxing into the curriculum. Lex's father was hired as the trainer for boxing. Under the man's tutelage, proper equipment, and an audience, Lex's skills flourished.

So, all things considered, it made sense that Lex Calder was arrogant and narcissistic. Lex had always been independent and somehow self-possessed, having been taught not to betray himself to emotions as a child. He fancied himself one of the stronger trainees, and had helped to introduce regimes for hand-to-hand combat. Then, there was the fact that he was attractive, painting himself as a big and strong ladies man.

It honestly didn't help that Lex was the best boxer, and beat any opponent. Because his ego just kept getting bigger, and he was on top of the world.

"C'mon, Gavin!" Lex taunted, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, watching his friend across the ring. "You've got to try harder to land a hit on me! Stop being such a loser!"

Gavin Detrench, Lex's good friend and fellow boxer, snarled as he quickly snapped his fist forwards towards the other boy. Lex merely sidestepped, quickly bringing his glove to give a teasing tap to his friend's shoulder.

"If you keep losing your cool, your punches will keep getting sloppier. It happens every time, man; what, you too stupid to figure it out?" Lex intoned sarcastically, easily dodging another sloppy attempt at a hit.

"Lex, stop riling him up!" barked a voice at the side of the ring. Lex retreated slightly from his opponent to send a wink towards a dark-skinned girl standing at the side of the ring.

"Not my fault that Gavin's a hot-head with shitty form, Leila!" Lex replied, giving a charming smile at her. Leila rolled her eyes in response.

"Hey, keep your eyes on **me**!" the other boy ordered, swiftly giving a punch. This one actually connected, since Lex had been distracted, but the hit boy quickly retaliated with his own jab.

"My bad. But you've got to admit, Leila's easier on the eyes than you are. You're not exactly attractive," Lex joked with a smirk, throwing his head at her direction. His black hair shifted slightly out of his brown eyes, and the sweat that been accumulated on his brow flung off to the side.

"Oi, it's creepy when you hit on me, Lex," Leila told him, crossing her arms. "You already do it on every other damn girl!"

"She's got a point, man," Gavin snorted, looking somewhat amused, as he laxly tried to jab at opponent.

"What can I say? I'm just that damn charming," Lex smirked, also now half-heartedly sending jabs to his opponent. "I've gotta keep up my chivalry for all my fans; being the best is a **huge** responsibility."

At that, Lex gave another jab, and then called the end of the match. His friend gave a somewhat frustrated shrug of his shoulders, and the two stepped out of the ring to rest.

Leila came over with towels and bottles of water for the both of them, shaking her head. Her long black hair swished about her, and the two teen boys gave her their thanks.

"Honestly, sometimes I wish I didn't take turns holding the punching bag for you, when we were training," she said lightly to Lex, giving him a playful kick. "Maybe then, I wouldn't constantly be drilled by your crazy fangirls for being your best friend."

"That's just a sacrifice you have to make, for being in the constant presence of _this_," here, Lex gestured to his muscular body with one hand, almost as if he was showing off a drool-worthy prize. But then he gave a small frown, as he added, "If they bother you too much, I'll try and talk to them. Can't have those bitches try and burn you at the stake because you're chill enough to be my best friend, yeah?"

Leila gave a mellow shrug, a lopsided grin on her face. "I wouldn't expect any less from you."

Lex ended up finishing his training for that day, and headed home, feeling confident in himself. If he Volunteered tomorrow, he'd be ready.

* * *

><p><strong>Liseli Avere, 18, District 9<strong>

As the school bell's chimes fell quiet, the girl with the red-blonde hair studiously turned in her finished work to the teacher. The harried woman took a quick look down at the paper, giving a small smile and nod to the girl.

"Excellent work again, Liseli," the teacher told the girl, who lifted her chin proudly. The blonde expected the praise; she was prideful and intelligent, after all. The woman then turned to take in the rest of the papers from other students, as Liseli exited the classroom.

She was intent on finding her friends, so that they could chat whilst they headed off to the fields for another day of work. The three treasured the time they had together, the time they were able to speak freely before having to stay silent during their fieldwork.

Weaving through the meandering mass of students, the thin girl finally spotted the well-known mop of dark brown hair that belonged to Felix. Zero-ing in on the sight, she accidentally smashed straight into someone.

Liseli managed to catch her balance, but felt winded. She was only 133 pounds, and although she wasn't weak, she still held a thin frame. She looked at the boy in front of her, noting how he seemed even weaker than her, but was her exact same height.

Ah, she knows him. Azrael Rachaye. The pariah of the District. Bit hard to forget him. Especially that pained look he always held on his face.

The kid had some deep issues, but that wasn't exactly her concern for now. Sure, she encouraged the weak, and was sympathetic to people's plights, but this kid had enough emotional baggage to fill a trash truck.

And she knew her limits. Being overtly kind and helpful will only make the kid cling to her, which would cause all types of problems. If she had to throw him under the bus to make sure her family wouldn't be affected for any backlash in associating with him, she'd do it. She'd do anything to keep the Averes afloat, even if she had to hurt or shun another person to do it.

Plus, if she dillydallied for too long, she'd make her friends late for work. That wasn't very responsible.

So the entire time that the two teens had spent, staring at each other—Azrael with that pained look on his face, cringing, as if he was ready for her to yell at him, despite it being **her** fault for slamming into him—it was in total silence. Finally, Liseli spoke.

"Sorry for slamming into you, kid," she told him, eyeing him calculatingly. Then she clapped him on the shoulder—making the guy flinch and jump. She already regretted the action, especially when her mind started to think some very snide, relentless thoughts.

God, he was pathetic. She knew she was known as the prideful, determined girl who took no one's shit, ready to rip people a new one with her swift and realistic jabs. But still. She knew when to control herself and back down from conflict, and didn't bully or harass anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.

The boy started to stutter something, but she simply gave him another pat on his shoulder, and he quickly quieted. "Hang in there. Good luck with tomorrow," she told him, a small snort escaping from her. "You're gonna need it."

Then she maneuvered around him, going straight towards her two friends, who were eyeing her curiously.

"What was that about?" Felix asked her quietly, his usually bored face looking intrigued.

"Nothing. Just apologizing for ramming into the poor guy," Liseli told them calmly, face perfectly neutral, even when her other friend started giggling.

Liseli raised an eyebrow, looking down at her short, blonde friend. Nadia gave her a wide grin, and then looked from Liseli's face, to over her shoulder, and back again.

"He's still standing there, staring at you, you know," Nadia said in a loud whisper, in her usual air headed manner.

Liseli took a quick look over her shoulder. Azrael was, indeed, staring at her. He then flushed, noting her look, and quickly scurried away.

Liseli looked back at her friends, and shrugged nonchalantly. "I also told him good luck. Kid looked like he needed it," she stated, before gesturing at them. "C'mon, we'll be late. Let's high-tail it over to the fields."

Her two friends fell in step next to her, still watching her curiously.

"I think that was a nice thing to do!" Nadia chirped. "I bet you're the first to wish him luck!"

"First, and only," added Felix in his usual quiet voice. The side of his mouth quirked upwards. "That was nice of you."

The short blonde beamed up at Liseli. "It really was."

Liseli merely quirked a thin eyebrow, her dark lips pursing. "Not exactly," she started evasively. "It's like…treating a kicked puppy in the most average way possible. Better than its usual treatment, but not exactly _nice_."

Nadia gave a giggle, and a dreamy sigh. "It'd still be cute if you became his friend…"

Liseli gave a patronizing snort. "And sully my family's honor? No thanks. Only the Hunger Games could ever force me to ally myself with him in any way, shape, or form. The kid's not emotionally or physically capable to be anything past 'acquaintance' with me."

The shorter girl pouted up at her, hands on her curvy hips. Liseli tried to shrug off the guilt that manifested from both her harsh words, and her friend's disappointed look.

"Look, we're here. Let's clock in, before we're late and they dock our pay," Liseli said, placating, shoving any and all other thoughts to the back of her mind. She needed her mind clear and focused on her task. Slacking off or failing wouldn't sit well with her hardworking nature.

She didn't want to _not_ pull her weight, especially when she noted the comforting visages of her parents in the distance. She's had the mindset of working to help give back to her parents since she was young. Liseli has done her bit day in day out without complaint to help them and herself get by, and no person or looming Reaping will ruin that for her.

* * *

><p><strong>Vamiya Willows, 16, District 11<strong>

That morning, Vamiya awoke with a random man in her bed. The house was barren. Her parents weren't home, again. They were most likely working, manning the shop.

These occurrences were normal for Vamiya Willows. Bring a man home, mess around with him, wake up to find her parents not being home. It didn't bother her in the slightest.

What **did** bother her was her little sister, a wisp of a child, sneaking into her room. Minnie would whisper things into Vamiya's ear, acting as if she truly liked her older sister, despite all the awful shit she did.

"_Tomorrow's the Reaping. I'd be 6_," the little girl says with a laugh, sounding as if she was miles away as Vamiya tried to clear her mind from the haze. However, no matter how many times she groggily blinked, her brown eyes could never focus properly on the thin image of the brat.

Vamiya groaned, rolling to her side, her back to the stupid brat. Then she took note the time, lowered herself next to her lover, and whispered in his ear that it was time to wake up.

"We don't want to be late, now do we?" she purred in his ear, as he gave a groggy groan. The man flopped an arm around her waist, pulling her to him as she gave a giggle.

"Hmmm, maybe I won't mind if we had a quickie," she mewled in his ear, massaging his morning erection. And without preamble, she rolled on top of him, their dark skin melting together as she quickly made love to him.

Her moans echoed loudly across her home; it pleased her that she could do this, with her parents gone. It almost made it worth it, them never being home to give her their love and attention.

As she lazily collapsed on her side, staring blankly at the door, she decided… it wasn't. Not exactly. Especially with her sister staring at her with wide, dead eyes. This only made her pissed off.

Vamiya got off her bed in a huff, and harked on man number 37 to put on his clothes and leave her house. But of course, she would give him a seductive wink, and tell him that she'll gladly get together with him sometime later.

The man stumbled out of her house, as she firmly closed the door behind him. Detached, she meandered over to the mirror in the bathroom, pulling up her messy hair in her signature ponytail. She looked at her scantily clad figure in the reflection, pulling aside her collar.

That guy had been okay. Mostly just gave her a few hickeys. Nothing new or interesting or truly memorable.

"Tomorrow's the Reaping…" she murmured, remembering that fact. She stared at the mirror, seeing her sister's pale reflection behind her, contrasting greatly with her own brown, strong one. "That's right; it's tomorrow, isn't it?"

Vamiya frowned. "That means that tomorrow, everyone'll be too busy to take up any of my offers…Damn it," she spit, giving a sneer. "Guess I'll just have to get in as much as I can today…"

Grumbling, she shoved her little sister out of the way forcefully, and then promptly stomped out of her home. She went to her boring school, in a bad mood.

She tried distracting herself by flirting with some of her classmates. A touch here, a flash there, a seductive wink or two. She kneed one guy under his desk at the back of the room, and noted that another was staring at her breasts will trying to discreetly jack off.

At the end of her first class, she quickly took aside some random guy in an empty storage closet. The time stretched out, and before she knew it, she was panting and making her way to her third class.

Rinse, wash, repeat.

By the end of the last class, she'd gotten intimate with ten boys.

Most days, she didn't throw herself at the boys in her classes so much. Sure, she flirted unashamedly, liked watching them stare at her, had a quickie with one every so often, but she didn't try feeling up so many guys in one school day.

It was probably because she was restless. She wanted to get in as much as she could before tomorrow, where the wells would run dry as everyone spent time with their families. And she didn't like taking up the dregs—they were older and nastier and didn't please her nearly as much.

As she meandered the halls, she pulled aside a tall boy to a stall in the boy's bathroom.

"Mmmm, they say that my height is **perfect** for tall boys," she crooned up at him, subtly flashing her breasts at him. She noted how he stared down at her, eyes able to look down her shirt easily.

"And they say that it's perfect for **other** things, other than looking," she breathed, as she slowly unbuttoned his pants with one hand, dipping her hand in to kneed him.

But even after giving that boy a blowjob—and offering him some more 'fun' for another day—she didn't feel like she'd had enough. Giving a frustrated click of her tongue, she sashayed her way down the streets of Eleven, trying to calculate how many guys she could have sex with today to burn off steam.

It turned out that if she truly put her mind to it, the answer was _a lot_.

Vamiya messes around with a lot of specimens of the male species, so she can be considered a whore, but she enjoys the attention and the physical contact. It's not like she truly loves any of the people she sleeps with, anyways, to care. She sleeps with them, they pay her, and she forever uses them to fulfill her needs and pleasures.

As Vamiya lay on her bed at almost midnight, mewling things in man number 54's ear, her mind wandered.

Maybe today would bolster her reputation of district whore, and get her new men to play around with. Someone that could properly fill in her kinks. After all, she went on a sex binge, so that would show that she's got great stamina, which would be appreciated, right?

As the ghost of her sister whispered and giggled things in her ear, Vamiya could only hope that she was right. She needed something to keep her distracted, and make the brat shut the fuck up.


	7. Intros: Day Of

**AN**: We've done it kids, we finished the Intros. They've taken too long to write. But, on the bright side, I've gotten a hang of writing these characters enough that the Reapings will be a breeze.

These are all in a somewhat tentative order of when they happened through the day, hence Cerium's oddly-placed section between the serious ones. Also, a new poll's up ; poll results on the previous will be posted on the blog.

The Tributes this chapter are**: Vulca, Flynn, Animal, Azrael, Cerium, **and** Hastiin**. Also, warning: incredibly irritating teen girl, asshole step-dads, self-harm, suicide, angst, vandalism, whipping, dead people…Yeah, I dunno what else I should warn about.

**Edit**: just fixing a few little details I missed, whoops

* * *

><p><strong>Intros: Day Of<strong> (Reaping)

* * *

><p><strong>Vulca Spark, 18, District 3<strong>

A teen girl was sleeping soundly in her plush bed, face buried in her fluffed pillows. Her long, dark hair was fanned around her, contrastingly starkly with the blankets and linens.

She looked peaceful in sleep. Her face was smooth, soft lips opened slightly as she breathed deeply. With her high cheekbones, thin eyebrows, and long lashes, she held an aristocratic air. Akin to that of a princess.

The peaceful image was shattered thoroughly when the girl was awakened roughly by a gruff, male voice.

"Vulca, get the hell up—and don't you **dare** try and go back asleep!" bellowed Edmund Spark as he roughly slammed his step-daughter's door open, sticking his head in her room.

The girl—Vulca—gave an irritated groan that sounded akin to that of a cat who got its tail trod on.

"What. Ever!" she spit furiously, violently taking up one of her many pillows and shoving it roughly over her head to block out the bastard's voice.

"Don't you ignore me, young lady!" the man demanded, voice rising. "Get up, or else we'll be late for the Reaping—like **last** year!"

"**Ugh**! Shut! Up!" Vulca crowed, screeching each syllable. She turned slightly around in her bed, chucking the pillow she was using previously at her step-father. "You're not my **real** dad!"

The man stood there, sneer on his face, going red in rage. He looked ready to march over and bodily drag the girl out of her room. However, a woman stuck her head into the room to diffuse the situation just in time, before the two could impart extreme bodily harm to each other.

"Vulca, honey, don't argue. Get up," stated Remilia Spark sternly, lips pursed. "And, Ed? Calm down. Yelling and losing your temper has never helped with Vulca _before_, and it won't help _now_."

The brunette man blinked down at the pretty woman, before his face broke out into the penchant fake smile he always gave his wife. "Of course, dear," he said, voice calm and sickingly sweet. "I just don't want my little girls to get punished for missing the Reaping."

Vulca gave a snort, glaring furiously at the man. She wished her mother hadn't been stupid enough to marry the asshole. It was pretty obvious that Edmund Spark despised her and her sister Vanessa. Hell, he was so obviously fake, it was a wonder that her wonderful mother didn't notice.

The bastard never gave her enough credit, but she **knows**. She knows of his little ploy, to steal her mother's inheritance. He could talk circles around Remilia with his honeyed tongue, but so long as her daughters were there, they wouldn't let him get away with it. Not even him taking up the Spark name had won him a co-signing from her mother.

Vulca slowly sat up in her bed, giving a low growl in her throat. "Get out so I can get changed," she ordered haughtily to her step-father, upturned nose angled up in the air, giving him a sharp glare.

"Will do, _princess_," the man replied, obviously sarcastic. He moved to leave her room, shooting her one last look of loathing, before shutting the door.

Ugh, she wished her **real** dad was still alive…He always treated his family right—his **entire** family, not just his wife. He was there every step of the way, always encouraging and showering them in love and presents.

Her dad had always told her that she was a "_Special girl, well worth waiting for_" because her birth was 3 weeks late. He was honest like that. But then he died when she was 10, and her mother threw herself at the first 'nice' man, to help numb the pain.

Too bad that 'nice' man was Edmund.

Vulca gave a scoff as she slowly peeled off her pajamas. "God, I can't **wait** to win the Games. Then, I can make sure that good-for-nothing **never** nears us again…"

Vulca gave a smirk of satisfaction at the thought. Her countenance brightened, as she realized that today was the Reaping—her **chance**.

She could do it. She was 17, charming, attractive. With all her talents, she could, in fact, win the Hunger Games.

After all, how hard could it be?

Obviously, the previous Tributes from District Three weren't trying hard enough. It was pitiful, how a majority went and died in the Bloodbath.

But **she** could do it. People would be scrambling over themselves to sponsor her. She'd become a favorite, hunt down the competition with the trained and strong Tributes, and win.

And then, when she won, she could make Three a Career District. Just like Riyo Sato and Festus Marsh with Two and Four. District Three was sandwiched between them, and they were a richer District, so it could happen.

_"Honestly,"_ she thought with an imperious sniff, "_Three can surpass Four, with a push. I'm, like, __**so**__ much prettier than Mags_."

Vulca smoothed down the front of her short, red dress. Then, she twirled around, her hair fanning around her. She examined her body from every angle, a smirk twisting the features of her pretty face into something ugly.

"Guys will be **clamoring** over themselves to ally with me," she noted arrogantly, giving a giggle that sounded akin to a sharp object scratching painfully across a pane of glass.

"_Hang on, District Three. Your new Victor will be taking the stage, soon_!"

* * *

><p><strong>Flynn Caltier, 15, District 7<strong>

Flynn woke up by a cacophony of sounds in her room. Slowly, she took time to properly awaken, before she would be forced into some sort of mess by her sister.

Quietly, the young girl observed her 21 year old sister tear through their shared closet like a cyclone. Davita cursed and spoke loudly, yelling towards their bedroom door—which was propped open widely—asking their mother for assistance in something.

"Maaaaaaa, I can't find my Reaping dress!" Davita howled, causing Flynn to discreetly cover her ears.

The younger girl took a quick look at the clock in their room. For whatever reason, Davita was actually awake **early**. And getting ready for the Reaping, if her yelling was anything to go by.

Davita was way past the Reaping age, so then why…? Ah, it's probably a boy. It explains why Davita's wearing her newest pair of underwear, as well.

Flynn cursed her intelligent, observant nature, at this moment. Clearly imagining her older sister taking her clothes off to flaunt her underwear to a man was something **no** sibling should ever imagine. It was scarring.

So Flynn merely feigned sleep, using her ears to figure out when it would be a safe time to 'properly' wake up. Sometimes it was good that she was naturally stuck in her sibling's shadows, always quiet and unnoticed, because she could carefully get out of a lot of awkward situations.

And get extra rest. Rest was good.

Aryan Caltier shuffled into her daughter's room, asking what was wrong. She helped her eldest find her Reaping dress, shuffling around in the closet.

The younger girl managed to pick up her mother saying that she was going to find **her** Reaping dress, as well. Flynn gave a small grin. Good; she didn't know where in the world it was. Davita took over most of the closet, so it was probably buried deep within the labyrinth of clothing.

Her mother muttered something about getting dressed and making breakfast, and shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind her. So, all Flynn needed to worry over was getting acceptably ready for the day.

She never got overtly invested in her looks, so she never took too long. She probably had a good **hour** until she should wake up to get ready But that gave her less time to meet up with her friends, even if she got more sleep. Hm, decisions, decisions…

Flynn suddenly picked up loud noises from the room next door, through the thin walls. It seems like the twins are awake, because of all the noise their older sister had been making.

Well, there goes her chance of getting extra shut-eye. Padraig and Heather are balls of energy, and like to 'check up on their precious little sister'. Aka: the duo enjoyed annoying the hell out of her, and rarely let her have any peace and quiet.

Where oh where had she gone wrong, when it came to the twins? When she was a baby, they'd been kicked out of their own room to make room for her, sure, but they were all too young to hold grudges, right? And when she was young, she'd been stuck in Padraig's room for a few short years, to separate the twins and get them used to the fact that Padraig was a boy and Heather was a girl.

But that shouldn't be held against her. The twins roomed for a majority of their lives, regardless of Flynn. And they're 18, completely and utterly capable of being mature young adults…

Flynn let out a small sigh, as the twins noisily bounded out of their room and into hers. Before they could pounce on Flynn and tickle her awake, she blearily sat up.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," she informed them, one hand waving them away, the other rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Awwww," Heather whined.

"How'd you wake up, Flynn?" asked Padraig with a pout.

"You're all loud," she muttered. "Hard to sleep through all of your noise…"

But, of course, she was ignored. The twins were already turning their attention to Davita, who was fussing both over them.

"Oh, it's your last Reaping! You should both wear something more presentable— it's not every day that you'll be attending your last Reaping, you know," Davita chided them, as she tried straightening both of their clothes.

Flynn gave a small snort. The twins were sporting identical jeans and t-shirts; definitely not their Reaping best.

"Now, go back and change! We've still got time, and Flynn needs to get ready, too," the eldest girl ordered, bodily shoving the 18 year olds out of her room.

"Ma left your Reaping dress on the desk. I'm going to nab the bathroom, 'kay?" Davita told the younger girl languidly, exiting the room before Flynn could even get a word in edge-wise. Flynn gave a sigh, although she wasn't surprised at her older sister's actions.

Properly locking the door, Flynn began to change out of her very childish pajamas and into her sundress. It was a very simple dress, a muted orange color. She quickly brushed out her dark hair, deciding to just leave it in its usual style, and dug in her desk for her necklace.

Flynn grinned when she found the necklace of beads. It was a gift her friend Acelynn gave to their group of friends. Friendship necklaces, Ace called them. The quartet of friends always wore the necklaces. It physically represented their tight bond, showed that despite how different the four were, they were always great friends.

When they received them, Theodore had humorously noted that they were so girly-looking, it would help keep away the swarms of girls away from him and Jake. Jake had merely flipped his dirty-blonde hair, and noted cheekily that only Flynn and Ace would ever convince him to wear jewelry. Flynn had smiled so hard, she almost burst, and cherished the necklace.

To Flynn, the necklace showed that, to her friends, she wasn't merely the baby sister. She wasn't just the sibling that always lived in her older sibling's shadows, the ignored pushover.

Flynn wore the necklace proudly and boldly, even when she trailed behind her family as they entered the Town Square. And when she met up with her friends, she saw that each of them wore theirs boldly as well—each of them being _equal_, none overshadowing the others.

This knowledge helped quiet the self-loathing whispers in the back of her mind.

* * *

><p><strong>Tomoki 'Animal' Seshat, 18, District 7<strong>

The people of District Seven were bustling about, amidst a thick, high-strung tension. Children were hushed, people spoke in low tones, and everyone walked carefully with stiff postures as they dragged their feet.

One boy was perched imperiously in the high branches of an olden oak, able to observe all those who went about their business. His face was in a sneer, his dark eyes beady, barely seen beneath his messy mop of hair.

But no one was looking at him. His small body was hidden amidst the branches, as he stuck to the shadows.

He wasn't sure if he preferred people ignoring him. It was either their dismissal, or their bullying. His narcissism would rather they pay attention to him despite the humiliation, but his pride would rather he stay hidden amidst shadows and leaves.

The boy stood up stealthily, balanced perfectly, as his eyes swept across the area. He could see the entire 'burrow' of houses, from his vacant point, all the buildings familiar from his childhood. His eyes slowly slid over to the one most familiar to him, and he scowled darkly.

His **former** home. Before his parents decided that he was too weak and unimportant to be their son, and kicked him out.

_You're tearing this family apart_, they'd said. _You're violent and a delinquent. You have to learn that your actions have consequences, Tomoki!_

But they didn't understand. Never have. It was **their** failure in parenting that caused him to morph into a beast. They belittled him as everyone else, deeming him weak, said that he would amount to **nothing**.

_Weak_. The boy bared his teeth in a fierce snarl. A moniker given to him by just about everyone, since he could remember. His classmates, his fellow Reaping-age teens, his bullies, his _siblings_, his _parents_.

And fuck it if that didn't push him off the edge—the fact that his own damn **parents** thought he was useless.

His siblings? Fuck, they'd instilled paranoia and loathing in him since he could _walk_. They were almost as bad as the damn punks that beat the shit out of him. They usually didn't beat the snot out of him (usually, because his asshole of a brother Hiroki broke his arm too many times to be deemed an _accident_) but they could be **worse**.

Because he used to fucking **live** with Hiroki and Amaya, so that meant that they could jeer and shove him in the shadows as many damn times as they pleased, and his parents wouldn't say anything because _oh, Hiroki and Amaya are such wonderful, wonderful children, they're so smart and strong, and, oh Tomoki, why can't you be anything like your siblings?_

The rage bubbled and boiled, blood coursing through his body, screaming at him to destroy something at that very second. But he had to wait, until the time was right.

So he settled with voicing his disgust. "**Fuck** them," he hissed, voiced hoarse and full of utter loathing as he stared holes at his prior home. "It's **better** that I'm not living with them."

But he couldn't take his stare off of his damn house—_former_ house. He could just imagine what his family was doing right now.

Hessian and Haruka Seshat would both be pushing to get his siblings ready, and his mother would also juggle with making breakfast. Some hashed potatoes, with a side of plain rice, and possibly a slice of home-baked nutty bread.

Then Hiroki would be chatting loudly with his father at the table, complaining that Amaya was taking too long getting ready. His mother would try calming him, and somehow manage. Then Amaya would calmly sit down, ignore her older brother, and help their mother with the dishes.

The boy blinked his eyes furiously. Out of irritation, because the burning in his eyes wouldn't be anything else. Any other emotion would make him seem like a pansy.

And, oh fuck, was that something in his eye? Yeah, probably. The short teen roughly rubbed at his eyes, before squinting them down below him at the sight of his family exiting the front door of their home.

The boy watched the four figures closely, his sights following their every move. His short mother, with her smooth features, was patiently straightening Amaya's skirt. His siblings still towered over the woman. Hiroki still strut around like he owned the damn world.

"So, nothing's fucking changed," he murmured, watching his family until they left his line of sight. They looked better, without him dragging himself bitterly behind them, he noted scathingly. Like a fucking picture-perfect family.

Silently, with blank eyes, the boy watched as the other families trickled out of their homes as the minutes ticked by. The time of the Reaping was looming ever closer.

Finally, when it was down to about fifteen minutes until the Reaping would start, the boy scaled down the tree with lithe movements. Once his tiny feet touched the ground, a predatory, excited grin split his smooth face.

Now that they were gone, he could wreck mayhem across all of these homes, and no one could stop him. All the Peacekeepers would be too occupied at the town square to run out to the sounds of destruction.

The boy bared his teeth, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, as he stalked the streets. His head constantly swiveled around, trying to find the perfect item to start the cacophony of chaos.

There, twenty yards in front of him, to the right. A rock, about the size of a half-loaf of bread.

Strutting over, the teen picked up the rock, weighing it in his hands. With a pleased chuckle, he strode over to the nearest house, and started to bash at the windows with it.

He moved quickly. From home to home, he threw their trash about, broke their windows, wrote on their walls.

He took out all his anger on these quiet, empty homes. In revenge for his constant humiliation. In revenge for always being belittled and dismissed. As payback, for all these people having such perfect and loving families that actually gave a _fuck_ about each other.

And on each home—in big, bold letters—he painted his name with precise, practiced strokes with his spray can.

He spelled his name. His **new** name. Because he wasn't stupid enough to spell T.O.M.O.K.I upon the places he vandalized. And _Tomoki Seshat_ was synonymous with _weak_ and _hopeless_ and _delinquent_ and _loser_.

He'd always been the weakling, the little guy, the one people easily crush. He likes power and control, because he himself has never had any. So when was kicked from his home a few weeks prior, he attempted to destroy the old person he had been, picking up a new identity.

His new moniker was much more powerful than his original name.

A.N.I.M.A.L.

And it _worked_. Because his new alias—Animal—is powerful and commands attention. It's why he's been able to get away with the vandalism, and with the humiliation of others in the District. Animal the Vandal was a mystery that caused chaos and destruction, a force that could strike at any moment.

A.N.I.M.A.L allowed him to make his revenge complete and utter reality. ANIMAL was a name feared and respected.

Animal gave a long, dry cackle, as he noted all the destruction. With a pleased smirk, he chucked his weapon into a random window, clapped the dirt from his hands, and quickly darted towards the Reaping.

He was going to show them all to fear him. Because Animal was going to **destroy** everyone, and win the Hunger Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Azrael Rachaye, 17, District 9<strong>

District Nine slowly awoke, its citizens lazily getting ready for the upcoming ceremony. They needn't rush; after all, their District was the last third to have their Reaping, so their ceremony started much later than Districts One through Eight.

Although, there were many teens that were miserable with the event looming over their heads, and would rather get it over with. The wait was stifling— and so would be the heat, when it was finally time for the event.

One such boy—who wished drearily for the Reaping to just come and **happen** already— had hid himself in a dank, dirty stall in the corner of the boy's bathroom at the orphanage. The stall was out of order, and held a busted light at the top, so no one really used it.

The teen sat there, face crumpled, thoughts darkening with each passing second.

_Outsider Filth. Loser. Unwanted. Psychopath. __**Killer**__._

Those are terms that Azrael's been called since he was 8. A box of decisions from society that he just couldn't escape, no matter what he did. No matter how nice he was, or how hard he tried to prove everyone wrong.

It's one thing to be shunned by one person. But to be alienated by an entire District is **crushing**. It's like the weight of a boulder. No matter where he goes, everything condenses and pushes, squeezing and crushing him.

Azrael blames his father for this. For **everything**.

It had started years ago, when his memories were filled with laughter and the smell of honey wheat. Women would go missing every month or so, and show up dead later. Along with specific rich folk— but **that** phenomena had stopped ever since Victor Niveus Blackburn returned to the District.

Back then, everyone was in a throw of terror, wondering who would be the next victim. The Peacekeepers were restless, whipping people left and right, but they came up with no concrete answers. Paranoia had settled like a shadow over the District, further hunching people's tired shoulders.

Azrael and his younger sister Kael were positive like their mother, Amayne. But that didn't last for long.

The Peacekeepers had busted into the Rachaye home one fateful, dreary day. No warning, no noise. They marched in, arresting his father, before quickly taking off again. After Cassis Rachaye was arrested and imprisoned, the man confessed to doing it all, despite the Rachaye family's disbelief.

And the Peacekeepers believed it. **Everyone** did. Because no one had any indiscriminating, pure evidence on anyone else doing these crimes.

Azrael took in a long, shaky breath. His body trembled, but his hands were oddly steady as he pressed the small blade to the pale skin of his upper arm.

He watched blankly at how his old scars opened anew. Watching as the bright red blood slowly bloomed from the shallow cut. And, like always, he didn't feel a thing. He was too hollow to feel physical pain.

It wasn't long after, when the glares started, then the accusations…then the isolation. The District was disgusted with Cassis Rachaye, and his family by association. Even though they hadn't known that their loving husband and father was a serial killer, a disturbed man with an insatiable desire for blood.

The three were corralled by the Peacekeepers and questioned, just a few weeks after Cassis's disappearance. It was brutal, more torture and interrogation than a simple questioning. But they truly had no information over Cassis's previous activities, so they'd been let go.

But it was too much. The accumulation of cruelty from both the Peacekeepers and the regular citizens was too much for his poor, sweet mother. She hung herself within the year, leaving him and Kael to the orphanage.

Azrael dug the blade into his shoulder, making tally marks of the years that Amayne Rachael had been dead_. Onetwothreefourfivesixseven—Eight_.

Nobody saw Azrael as a child, not with his father's heinous crimes hanging over his head like a thick fog. Not when _he looked like the __**exact**__ spitting image of his father_.

Azrael was like a walking, breathing, talking reminder to Nine. At least Victor Niveus Blackburn had quarantined himself to the Victor's Village. But everyone was **stuck** with this orphan who was a ticking time bomb, the next expected serial killer.

His classmates either shunned him or bullied him, adults ignored him, friends abandoned him.

Kael had clung to him as much as she could, wanting comfort from her big brother, and wanting to comfort him from the crushing despair. She was the best part of his life, the light in the stifling darkness.

But they even took his sister from him. Decided when she was ten and he was thirteen, that she needed to be taken away from his _influence_. The adults bodily ripped her from his grasp while they both screamed and cried themselves hoarse.

All he knew was that she was '_in a nice family, on the opposite side of the District_'. That's all they told him. He hasn't seen her since. He doesn't even know if she's named Kael anymore—or healthy, happy, _alive_.

Azrael deftly rolled up the left leg of his pants, head sunk low. Looking down with tired, dead eyes, he took his blade and started to lightly carve into the flesh just below his knee.

People pretended nothing was wrong; that he wasn't suffering. Even when he hung back, in the shadows, with a gaunt complexion. Even when he flinched from any type of movement towards him, any touch. Even when the scars covering his arms and legs were blatantly left out in the open.

And nobody cared.

With a long breath, Azrael slumped back against the grimy tile of the bathroom. He listlessly spread his limbs out, blood still oozing from the angry marks. He stared up at the cracked ceiling, trying to fight the hot tears that slid down his twisted face.

He could count on one hand, the number of people that seemingly **cared**. One hand for anyone that was **nice** to him.

As he studied the blade in his hands, wondering where else he should start cutting, he remembered something.

_Yesterday, after the last school bell. A girl his height, with red-blonde hair. Liseli, he was sure she was called. They bumped into each other, and she talked to him._

_Liseli clapped his shoulder. "Hang in there. Good luck with tomorrow. You're gonna need it."_

The edge of his mouth pulled upwards, and the tears stopped. It's been four years—since Kael was taken away—since he'd had someone to wish him luck for the Reapings.

It was…nice. Refreshing.

And it gave him the strength to stop hurting himself further. To get off the dank, smelly floor. To wipe his face. To wash his cuts. To ready himself for the Reaping, and put on his best. To block out the cruel glares and jibes. To put one foot in front of the other, and walk all the way down to the town Square.

Azrael stood in line to sign in. When it was his turn, he strode forwards, giving a weak, polite grin to the Peacekeeper at the desk. The woman glared at him, roughly taking his proffered hand to stab at his finger, drawing blood. But he didn't react at all to it, didn't feel the pain.

He shuffled his way into the Square, going off into the roped-off pen for the 17 year old males. He stood at a back edge, eyes looking every which way at the filling area.

He caught a sight of familiar red-blonde hair, and stared. He hadn't noted it before, but Liseli had long, straight hair. It was pretty; the color of the sky during a sunset. Against the white blouse she wore, it was like a river of soft, shimmery flames was painted across a canvas.

If it weren't for the Escort calling for their attention, he wouldn't have taken his eyes off of her.

* * *

><p><strong>Cerium Morgan, 16, District 5<strong>

Cerium was a naturally optimistic person. While the entire District seemed nervous and downtrodden about the looming Reaping, she tried keeping positive.

Sure, her doing so was a bit naïve, but it was ultimately better to see the good of any situation. Because then, the good parts would help you get through the bad, acting as something you could cling to in dire times.

So with that uplifting disposition, Cerium readied herself for the Reaping. She chatted with her family at the table as they slowly ate their breakfast, trying to dispel the tension.

"Cerium, your babbling isn't going to put us at ease," snapped her mother, Lydia. The girl snapped her mouth closed, picking at her toast meekly.

"Honey," murmured Stefan Morgan at his wife, eyebrows creased. He pat his daughter on the head, as if she was still 6, knowing how sensitive his daughter was. "We're sorry, Cerium. The Reaping's just a tense affair," he told her, giving her a small, tight smile.

"I know it's my last Reaping, but I'll be fine," Cerium's brother spoke up, voice dry. "Although, I don't mind Cerium shutting up…"

The girl shot him a look, which turned into a glare when Bromine ruffled her hair roughly. She bat her older brother's hand away, trying to straighten her auburn hair again, even though it was naturally wavy and skewed.

"Bromine, stop teasing your sister. She's spent time and effort on her appearance, and you shouldn't ruin her hard work," intoned their mother, giving a pointed look at her son over her cup of tea.

Cerium, however, caught her mother's compliment. She beamed, straightening up proudly in her chair. Cerium had worried over her appearance—specifically, her hair—so the reassurance was nice.

Her mother had bought her a new dress from the second-hand store, for this Reaping. It was an old-fashioned model of dress— button-up with a rounded collar, showing how old it was—but it was still in good condition. Cerium was enamored with it—the teal color was still strong and pretty, and it held these cute little short sleeves on it that were different from all the dresses with straps or puffy sleeves.

After that, breakfast was a bit less tense. But Bromine still pestered and snarked at her—such stereotypical big brother behavior. It made her miss her older sister, Indium. Indium had moved away from home to study biochemistry at one of the District's various research-facilities-that-totally-didn't-exist.

Yeah, right. It was amusing how the Capitol pretended that science wasn't a huge part of District Five, when it was just so…Blatantly there.

Anyways, she was happy for the opportunity her sister had, she honestly was! But Cerium still missed her dearly. Indium had been away from home for about four months now, and Cerium craved for her hugs and advice.

But she tried to dispel the gloom of those thoughts. Her sister had an important, well-paying profession that she enjoyed. It was the best possible option for Indium.

Cerium grinned when her family left their home, intent on trying to trudge through the next hour with as much pep she possessed. As they neared the Square, passing by various houses and shops in the downtown part of the District, she spotted a familiar mop of curly-blonde hair close to the Registration desks.

"Andie, hey!" she called out to her friend. The lanky boy was off to the side, hunched over, and jumped at her sudden exclamation.

Cerium slowly walked towards Andie, allowing him to find her, before she accidentally spooked him again. He didn't like it when his friends suddenly popped in front of him. He freaked out over the smallest things, and was a worrywart, and probably had some type of social disorder—a bad mix, even worse to have during such an event like the Reaping.

"O-Oh, Cerium, hey," Andie said weakly, giving her a quavering smile, hands shaking as he fiddled with his fingers. He looked very pale, and was darting his green eyes constantly over to the check-in desk that held the Peacekeepers.

Cerium gave him a comforting smile, and took his arm, guiding him to the line for Registration. She talked to him to take his attention away from the intimidating people in pristine white armor, and the needle-device that would prick their fingers.

Before long, they were at the front, and got signed in. Cerium managed to stay by Andie's side, and helped keep him from completely freaking out over being poked by a needle. She gently herded him towards the 16 year old female section, despite his quiet protests.

"When it gets closer to the start, you can just walk over to the boy's pen," Cerium told him soothingly. "See—other guys are mingling in here too, so you're not the only one. You'll be fine."

Andie relaxed, giving a small grin down at her, before the duo was faced with their two other friends.

"Good, you two didn't get lost," Deryn said quietly, her hazel eyes twinkling in mirth. Cerium and Kendal laughed, whilst Andie rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Maybe I should invent Andie a super-special compass to help him find his way?" Kendal suggested, tilting her head, wolfish grin on her face.

The boy of the group frowned down at the petite girl who held a penchant for tinkering with things. "Maybe you should invent something that will actually get commissioned and distributed," he told her dryly.

"Put some water on that sick burn, Kendal—I think Andie out-sassed you," Deryn intoned in her usual reserved voice. Kendal gave a swat at the girl's hair, causing the dirty-blonde strands to shift from their prior perfectly straight position.

"Now, now," Cerium started, ready to put all her friends at ease, and smooth things over. "Andie— you've been improving when it comes to large groups, but it's understandable that at the Reaping you'd be nervous. Kendal—you're too ambitious to **not** invent something great, one day."

Finally, Cerium turned to Deryn, the group's token-quiet friend. She cocked her head to the side, unsure what wise wisdom to impart on her.

"Deryn—keep staying golden," she told the blonde-haired girl simply, who gave her a small, bemused smile.

"I'm not dyeing my hair any time soon…" Deryn intoned, giving a small snigger. The group laughed, tension slowly ebbing from them.

But it came back full-force, once a screech of a microphone echoed across the area. It looks like the Escort was testing the microphone.

Andie face fell, twisting, making him look like he had indigestion. He quickly bid his three friends farewell, ducking down, and darted towards his proper section.

"_Well, at least he won't get in trouble_," Cerium thought, trying to find the silver lining in the situation. It was a bit hard, with how queasy she suddenly felt, the situation finally crashing down on her.

* * *

><p><strong>Hastiin Tsoh, 14, District 11<strong>

Most people in District Eleven were out working in the fields, at this time, despite the event that was taking place today. The Peacekeepers of Eleven were very strict; even if the Reaping in most other Districts was a mandatory event, they still forced at least half the District to keep working during this day.

Eleven was one of the largest Districts, and was very vital for all of Panem. They were the Agriculture District—they essentially grew the food for the entire nation. Sure, Nine provided the grain, Four caught fish, and Ten produced the meats—but as it stood, Eleven produced the highest quota of food, more than those three Districts **combined**.

Eleven just simply wasn't allowed to be able to take holidays, no matter the reason. Production was important, and stopping an entire industry for just one day was detrimental and a **waste**.

So, a majority of Eleven was forced to still work for today. The only ones that had the day off were the children of Reaping age, for obvious reasons. The rest of the Square would be filled with those workers and parents and such that were literally lucky enough to be given the day off. That, or those who were unable to work for some reason; those who didn't matter, who wouldn't be detrimental to production.

Hastiin knew this—the reasoning behind his parents, and so many others, having to work out in the fields and orchards, despite the Reaping.

Whilst other children were heartbroken over their loved ones being unable to escort them to the Reaping, or be there in the crowds for emotional support, Hastiin understood. He didn't fuss or whine, nor did he plead or cry, nor put his hopes in being able to 'convince' his parents to drop everything they were doing for him.

Hastiin barely turned 14—and a rare only child, never knowing the responsibility of looking out for siblings—but he wasn't naïve or stupid. He didn't react negatively to his parents telling him that morning that they still had to go out and work in the fields. He simply nodded, giving them both tight hugs, wishing them luck with work and assuring them that he'd get to the Square fine.

Bidziil and Kai Tsoh, after all, were the nice sort of people that would never abandon their child, unless they had to. The strict policies weren't their fault at all.

Didn't mean that any of them would like it, though. Once Hastiin was left alone in his little shack of a home, he muttered darkly about how utterly horrible the Capitol was, making the citizens slave away.

Hastiin was understanding, but he was also snide and passionate in his dislike for the Capitol. He was just cautious, stoic, and introverted enough that this never caused him any backlash.

And he **never** talked about his Rebellious behavior to his parents. Keeping quiet doesn't have the possibility of the Peacekeepers finding out and killing him and/or his parents. Getting killed was a very strong outcome, if the Peacekeepers learned that all the traps that sprouted up around their headquarters and pit-stops were created by **him**.

Hastiin prided himself in his intuitiveness and strong grasp in common sense. And the outcome of him opening up about his little Rebel stints to **anyone** was incredibly undesirable. He'd rather keep his parents naïvely innocent and alive, thanks.

Hastiin's muttered anti-Capitol sentiments under his breath whilst changing into his clothes for the Reaping. He checked himself in the dirty, cracked mirror in his parent's room. He was glad that he chose to wear the white, collared shirt his father let him borrow—if he wore any other shirt, the sweat stains would be more visible.

"We're all going to be sweating like pigs," Hastiin noted dryly. He sighed, cursing the mid-day heat aloud.

The temperature in Eleven was always warm, but currently, the heat was unbearably stifling. It always got this way, at this time of time of day—and yet, this was the hour the Reapings took place, every single year.

The earlier Districts were lucky. They had to wake up earlier, but they had a more bearable hour of the day to have their Reapings.

Hastiin exited his home to the sun beating down strongly on him. He squinted, bringing up an arm to cover his eyes, and started walking towards the Square. It was a very long, dry, boring trek. It didn't help that he was quiet, wasn't up for social interaction, and only had one friend—who didn't even live in this part of the District.

He, and other Reaping-age children, trudged down the dirt paths. Past the shantyhouses, the fields, the orchards, the Peacekeeper outposts…Until they were finally stepping onto the paved roads that led into the dingy town that would hold the Reapings.

And, because the Square was currently being used for the ceremony, the outskirts of the town temporarily held the stocks and whipping posts. Even though today was supposed to be a holiday, the Peacekeepers were punishing people all the same.

Hastiin scrunched up his face as he passed, forcing himself to stiffly put one foot in front of the other. He was shoved forwards when he froze in the middle of the trek, staring wide-eyed at a little 11 year old boy getting whipped.

Hastiin's tanned face paled as he stared, imagining the little boy being replaced by his very close, very **dead** friend from a few years ago.

He robotically walked forwards, ghosting passed the whipping posts, as he remembered the day the Peacekeepers whipped his childhood friend to death. He could still visualize the crumpled and broken body of Jay— so, so tiny and fragile and _dead_ compared to the towering Peacekeeper.

Hastiin was barely 12. Jay was still 11. Jay didn't deserve to die via public whipping. Hastiin didn't deserve to watch his best friend die in front of his very eyes, helpless.

Hastiin clenched his fists tightly, his nails painfully digging in his palms. He tried to calm himself through deep, even breaths.

Jay's death still haunted him. Every time Hastiin saw a young boy getting punished, he couldn't help but imagine Jay's death. And every time he was reminded by the injustice, it lit and spurred a Rebellious fire within him.

Eventually, he finally got to the heart of the town. Hastiin took in his surroundings, amongst the throng of sweat-drenched teenagers, as he meandered his way towards the Registration desks. The Square was already packed with children. His group had to push and shove their way through all the adults that were loitering in the streets.

Hastiin silently stood in one of the sign-in lines. When it was his turn, he stiffly stepped forwards, extending his hand stoically. When his blood was drawn, he gave a tiny, curt nod to the Peacekeeper at the desk, and made his way towards his section.

It wasn't easy. Everyone was tightly packed, and Hastiin was pretty short. Sure, he was fit from work, but it was still a _bitch_ to shove his way through all the roped sections to get to the 14 year old male pen.

It also took a bit of maneuvering to find his friend Myrt—but at least the friendly boy was at edges of the pack. With a final grunt, Hastiin stumbled in place next to the tiny, underfed boy.

"Hey, Hastiin!" Myrt greeted brightly, grinning. The boy looked like he was drowning in his own sweat.

"Hey," he said politely, giving a grin down at the boy—who was even shorter than **him**. "Been here long?"

"Nope, thankfully," the other boy noted, giving a tinkling laugh. "But our Escort has. He looks like he could go _swimming_ in his sweat."

Hastiin looked up at the stage, easily finding the ridiculous visage of Sushi Diver, District Eleven's Escort from the Capitol. The man looked murderous, complaining loudly to the Mayor, gesticulating wildly at his sweat-soaked clothing.

"At least he didn't wear his asinine cape this year," Hastiin noted dryly, feeling smug at the man's discomfort.

Last year, the Capitolite had worn some ridiculous, large, scale-like cape. It was obvious that the cape draped on him had been causing him to sweat incredible amounts. Last year, mid-Reaping, the man ripped the cape off and threw it to the side of the stage in a fit, cursing loudly and screeching about the heat.

This year, the man was stupid enough to wear black slacks and an oddly puffy, long-sleeved shirt. However, he had unbuttoned the shirt fully, showing his pale, scrawny abdomen. A vivid blue sash was tied around his waist—most likely to make up for the fact that he wasn't wearing his cape this year.

Sushi Diver's ridiculousness made the entire Reaping seem much less intimidating—at least, to Hastiin. He felt oddly at ease, whilst the rest of the teens seemed to be buzzing with worry.

No, _ease_ wasn't the right word. He felt energy in his veins, felt like he should be **doing** something. He wasn't worried about the Reaping, but also didn't like just _standing there_ like a complacent **sheep**.

And in that instant, Hastiin knew. He knew what he was feeling, and what he wanted to do.

He would be the only one willing enough to do it. To do something **worthwhile**.

Because how many teenagers actually attempted to use the resources given to them to create a way to fight the system, from the inside…?


	8. D1-D2 Reapings: Boom Clap

**AN**: I hate school, so, so much…Gah, all the work I have to do, leaving me so little true free time is killing me!

Anyways, I decided to just group the Reapings by each 2 Districts, or else this'll drag on forever. Each Reaping is 3k or so words.

* * *

><p><strong>D1-D2 Reapings: Boom Clap<strong>

_"Boom, clap,  
>The sound of my heart,<br>The beat goes on and on and on and on and…"_

* * *

><p><strong>Mediah Flash, Victor of the 8<strong>**th**** Annual Hunger Games, D1  
><strong>

Today was the day he's been waiting for. Soon, the Hunger Games will officially begin.

And maybe **this** time, one of his trained Careers will finally take the crown.

Mediah didn't particularly _hate_ any of the Victors that won, just because they weren't some of his trained Careers. Sure, Niveus was despised by almost the entirety of the nation, Lehvant was a bit of a cold bitch, Yoshiro was an assholish genius, Riyo was an arrogant ice queen, Woof only managed to win by pure and utter dumb luck, Eshana became a broken husk, and Taz also managed to win with mostly luck...

He was _irritated_ by some of them, but he didn't _hate_ them. There was a difference.

Even if the outer District Victors didn't exactly train or work for their Victory, he wasn't going to just dismiss them like a total tool. He respected them for being able to survive a death match, despite the odds. And some of them truly did spectacular feats for their Victory—Lehvant, Yoshiro, and Taz came to mind instantly.

But as Mediah slowly got ready for the day—waking up his beautiful wife and child, sitting down at the table for breakfast, looking over the files of his chosen Volunteers one final time—he couldn't help but hope that his hard work would **finally** pay off. That maybe, this year, one of his Tributes could manage to survive the finale, unlike the countless of other teens preceding them.

It was almost like a curse. A District One kid would reach the final few—even the very finale— and then promptly die, before they could take the crown. The 9th, 12th, 13th, 15th, 18th, and 20th were all years where it happened. All years that District One **could** have gotten their third Victor.

Mediah was starting to get frustrated. He has promised Panem—particularly, the Capitol—that One would produce more impressive Victors, like him. Strong, charismatic, _trained and ready_.

He's managed to inspire Two and Four to follow his model and ideas. That was all well and good—very helpful for the future of Careers, in fact… But he just wanted one of his kids—the teens he put so much time and effort on to train and help—to **win** for once, damn it!

As he helped his four year old daughter wriggle into her poofy Reaping dress, he took note of his selfishness. Sirona was almost onto her second decade, Mentoring by herself. The depressed and unstable Niveus was alone for a decade now, and last year his chance of getting a partner was ripped from right in front of him. Eleven and Twelve also had only one Victor, even if they were still fresh-faced.

But, at the very least, he could admit that he was selfish. That was one of his faults.

And as he smile down at his precious little girl— who giggled and twirled around, begging him to tie up her hair in ribbons—he couldn't help but feel that he had a damn good reason for his selfishness. He wanted kids to be trained and able-bodied— ready to Volunteer, ready for the Games— so they could _survive_. He wanted Volunteers that were prepared to step in and take another's place, so his little Gem and other precious young ones wouldn't _ever_ have to.

Mediah put up Gem's hair into pigtails with ribbons, with practiced ease. He then scooped her up in his arms, and went to his bedroom to check up on his wife.

Who happened to be stressing out which dress to choose for the Reaping, pacing the room vehemently. "Honeeeeey," Angel whined as she faced her husband, voice jumping up an octave in hysteria.

Mediah gave her a calming smile, setting down his giggling daughter on their large bed, to help assist his finicky wife with her choice of wardrobe.

"Didn't you choose your dress last night…?" he asked her, as he casually stepped into the walk-in closet to survey the abundance of dresses his wife owned, the blonde scurrying in behind him.

"Yes—but what if it's too uglyyyyy?" Angel pouted. "Or what if it's—Oh God—" she paled, lowering her voice into a whisper, "_out of style?!_"

"Sweetie," Mediah stated, putting a hand on her shoulder to keep her from rushing around like a chicken with her head cut off. "You look beautiful when you wear **anything**," he told her firmly, before giving a small smirk. "Or **nothing**."

She giggled, slapping his shoulder lightly. "Oh **you**, always the charmer," she said, grinning, as he wrapped his hands around her middle.

Mediah smirked, nuzzling her neck, which made her give a breathy giggle. "How about this one?" he murmured huskily in her ear, as he reached out to a hanger that held a little black dress.

It had extra straps of cloth at the bottom and sleeves, and held a sprinkling of gems on the neckline that trailed down. It was elegant and somewhat simple, compared to some of the other garish Capitol dresses Angel owned. She beamed back at him, giving him a quick kiss.

"It's perfect! It'll go great with my new pair of shoes," she noted, grinning widely, as she disentangled herself from his grip to quickly grab the dress and hunt for said pair of shoes.

"Hmmm…Can I help you put it on?" he asked her lightly, eyebrows raised, giving her a pointed look and playful smirk.

She gave him a playful look back. "Mediah, Gem's still in our bedroom, and you should pass her off to your mama and papa, for the Reaping…"

He gave a dramatic sigh. "Fine, fine…" he drawled, a smile twitching on his lips. "But next time we're alone, you're not getting away from me **that** easily."

She rolled her eyes with a lopsided smile, her dimples showing up on her smooth face. "Even though I enjoy our alone time, dear, we have to think about the children. I would rather not have a fiasco like **last** time…"

Mediah snorted derisively. "We were caught **once,** and that was **years** ago. It's not like the kid didn't know what sex was…"

Angel gave an exasperated huff, and shoved him towards the door, her cheeks pink. "Just go. I'll try not to take too long."

With a snicker, Mediah exited the closet, quickly picking up his daughter. "Alright, my little diamond—we're going to leave you with your grandparents for the Reaping, and until we get back from the Capitol," he told the bundle of energy in his arms, as he strode towards the front door. He tapped her on the nose, causing her to giggle. "So behave."

"Yes, Daddy," Gem chirped. Mediah quickly stepped out of his home, simply striding over to the one next door, depositing his daughter to his mother before he doubled back.

Time was ticking down, but thankfully, getting the huge family ready to leave wasn't as hard as he'd considered. Soon enough, the entire Flash family made their way out of the Victor's Village, towards the Reaping.

The family passed through the decorated streets of the largest city of One—Jewel City—entering the spacious city square. The high-end shops were covered in giant banners, streamers twisting like colorful snakes amongst the towering lampposts, the well-polished cobblestones littered with confetti. Already, the Square was buzzing, full of the Reaping-age children in attendance, standing amongst their roped-off sections.

Mediah somehow managed to wrench the both of them away from their families, and they quickly passed through the outskirts of the Square to get to the high, polished stage at the front. Once they went up the steps on stage left, they were enveloped in a dramatic hug by their Escort, Nebula Vetruvius.

"Dahlings, you're both looking well!" she exclaimed in her deep tone, as she pulled them both into quick hugs. "Is little Gem safely with your parents?"

"Yes," answered Angel with a smile.

Nebula was wearing her penchant wig—purple, long, and flowing—as well as a space-themed, robe-like dress. The woman also still kept her unnerving white eyes and pitch-black diamond-studded skin. She took her name and space theme very seriously—something about how it was an impacting, memorable image.

The couple went over to their seats on the stage, and the Capitolite went to the microphone. Mediah clutched his wife's hand, feeling excited.

"It's showtime!" Angel whispered in his ear, giving a bounce. The Mayor took that time to start—starting the opening speech, and welcoming the crowd to the Reaping for the 21st Annual Hunger Games.

"Now, let us take notice of our splendid Victors," the Mayor intoned. "Angelica Shine, winner of the 4th Annual Hunger Games, and Mediah Flash, winner of the 8th Annual Hunger Games!"

The couple stepped forwards, beaming with pride, waving to the roaring crowd together. Once the cheers died down, they stepped back to their previous positions.

Mediah's mind wandered, as his eyes roved across the crowd. He knew it was bad form, to not pay attention like so many others, and that he was a Victor…But the ceremony was honestly **very** tedious and repetitive. He had all the speeches memorized word-for-word, and the recaps only ever cut to the actual name pulling anyways…

"And now, for the female Tribute…!" Nebula started slowly, before gliding up to the glass bowl for the girls. She swirled her hand above the bowl, before plucking a slip, and going back to the microphone.

Before the woman could speak, there was a shout of "I Volunteer!" from the crowd. Mediah gave a smirk—the girl wasn't a fan of this entire thing dragging out, like him.

Regina Gabriella easily traversed across the section of 18 year old girls, strutting purposefully up to the stage, looking determined and fierce. For once, she wasn't wearing casual clothing, had her hair in braids, or was toting her skateboard.

Regina Gabriella had her dark hair up into a curly half-updo. She was wearing a very proper tea-length purple dress that had a lace bodice and sheer, three quarter inch sleeves. As she strode up the stage, he also noted that she was very precise in her accessories. Fishnet stockings; black lace choker; knee-high, silver, gladiator sandals; silver turtle earrings.

Mediah gave a bemused grin, as he noted that he honestly would not have known any of the precise fashion terminology, if not for his wife.

"I'm Ginny," the girl said into the microphone swiftly. "And I Volunteered to show my parents that I can, in fact, survive the harsh environment of the Games, and come back to One." At this, she lifted her chin, glaring at the crowd. "I'm the strongest candidate for this position, so **don't** underestimate me."

Mediah nodded, noting that proving her parents wrong had been a huge driving force to the girl. But the other was obviously her girlfriend—Regina Gabriella would not have worked as hard as she did, without the blonde girl by her side.

"Ah—very sassy," Nebula noted with a grin. "Now, for the male Tribute…!"

Regina Gabriella crossed her arms, tapping her foot at the Escort's drawn-out theatrics, and Mediah felt like laughing.

Nebula finally glided back to the microphone, slip in hand. "Our male Tribute is…Marble Revolve," she intoned. There was a shuffling from one of the younger male sections, and a boy boredly made his way on stage. There was a long, silent pause, before the Escort spoke once more. "Are there any Volunteers…?"

"I Volunteer!" called out a voice clearly. Mediah nodded; it was like Devon to do things properly, and never quickly jump into things.

Devon emerged from the 18 year old male section, giving a charming, polite smile as he strolled evenly towards the stage. The boy was wearing a blue silk shirt, and dark pants. They looked like jeans—very nicely tailored and expensive jeans, but jeans nonetheless.

Huh. Mediah thought that Devon was so proper, that he'd be wearing some type of suit to this event.

As Devon neared the stage, Mediah noted that his smile—although very handsome—was blatantly hollow and plastic. He was obviously having second thoughts, but it was too late to back out.

Then again, Devon never truly seemed like he wanted to Volunteer. Sure, maybe he'd convinced himself that he wanted to, and he was very strong and skilled—but he never had the true intent in himself.

"Hello. I'm Devon Mahone," he spoke into the microphone, giving a pleasant smile to the cameras. "It's an honor to be here. I hope to be the Victor of the 21st Annual Hunger Games, with my strength, and bring honor and fortune to District One."

The boy sure was working up the charm to please One and the Capitol. But Mediah wasn't stupid. He **knew** that Devon had been all but forced by his mother, Sansa Mahone, to enter the Tribute Academy. From actual experience, Mediah knew that the short woman was a blunt, manipulative snake with some deep issues.

"What a _gentleman_," Nebula crooned, looking pleased. She told the two to shake hands—which they both did, in a firm, curt manner. The purple-haired woman then raised each of their hands besides her, as if she was crowning them both champions. "District One, your Tributes…!"

The crowd roared in approval, and confetti rained down from the roofs. Mediah gave a pleased sigh, noting the shining and grateful eyes of the younger children, as they stared up happily at the two strong 18 year olds.

The two teens were ushered off the stage by Peacekeepers, and led towards the Justice Building for their goodbyes. He and Angel wouldn't be seeing them for a few hours.

District One, after all, was the first to have their Reaping, as well as one of the closest Districts to the Capitol. This allowed the Tributes to spend almost the rest of the day with their friends and loved ones, before they set off at late evening. Why, they could hypothetically set off the next day in the morning, and they would **still** be early—but it was never practiced.

The couple languidly made their way to their families, ready to spend the next few hours with them, before they had to go to the Capitol and Mentor for another year.

* * *

><p><strong>Devon Mahone, 18, D1<br>**

Devon looked around curiously at the décor within the room he was escorted into. After just a minute, his family piled in. Devon gave a smile, noting that even his stepfather came. The man looked cross, but he at least decided to put in the effort of being a decent human being, to come and send off his stepson.

Honestly, sometimes Devon wondered how his siblings could be so much **better** and **different** than their father. Matheu Trinati was a jackass that only married his mother for her beauty and social status, and he was always grouchy or derisive.

The first person that reached Devon was his mother. With a face-splitting grin, he hugged her tightly as she cooed to him.

"That was such a **perfect** introduction, Devon. I'm sure **everyone** in the Capitol will sponsor you. Such a charming boy..." she told him, giving him a few pats on the back, before she pulled out of his embrace.

His siblings then tackled him in a large hug, and he laughed happily. His indecision and doubts were becoming muted, and the stress of his body slowly leaked away.

Devon sat down on the plush velvet couch, his little sister Kalia on his lap, as he spent time chatting with his family. His stepfather had lasted a half hour— sitting as far away as possible on the couch—before he finally left the room with some half-assed excuse about needing to do something work-related. Even though today, there was no work.

He honestly wasn't surprised, and felt happier without the negative man there. He basked in his family's love and attention. After almost 3 hours, his mother stood up to bid farewell, and take his siblings with her.

"My little Victor…You'll do me proud, won't you, Devon?" the woman murmured in honeyed tones, stroking his hair and holding him in an incredibly intimate way—one which was completely different from her usual countenance.

"I will," he replied readily. "Anything for you, Mother."

"Good, good…" Sansa replied, voice far-off as she suddenly stared off in the middle-distance, an off-putting grin slowly crawling up her face. "You'll come back to me, full of riches…Not like your father…No, you're a good boy, even if you look like him…Such a good boy…Going to make Mommy proud…"

Devon's siblings started to look weirded out, by this point, leaning heavily away from the short woman. Sansa then finally detached herself from her son, who saw nothing off about her actions.

His siblings gave him one last hug and farewell, awkwardly shuffling out after Sansa, talking quietly amongst themselves about possibly getting their mother to see a psychiatrist. Neither Devon nor Sansa noted the hushed discussion.

Barely after his family left, Devon's best friends and girlfriend rushed into the room. Devon had just enough time to catch Esmeralda, who flung herself at him.

"God, we've been waiting fucking **forever** to see you, man!" Jensen crowed, looking annoyed, as he pounced Devon after the girl let go.

"Well, he's got a few hours to say goodbye. One is right next to the Capitol, after all," Helios noted calmly with a grin, stepping forwards to hug Devon after the blonde boy let go.

After about an hour of chatting and banter, a disturbance happened that weirded out Devon. Helios suddenly started to cry, choking on his answer mid-conversation, tears sliding down his face.

"…I'm gonna miss you so much, Dev…You're like a brother to me, and I just…" Helios hiccoughed. Esmeralda slid off of Devon's lap, and Devon's best friend threw himself into his arms, shaking.

Devon was unsure of what to do. Through all the time his mother was in hysterics about his father leaving them, he never picked up how to comfort crying people.

"Yeesh, you can't just **cry** like that, man!" Jensen said, alarmed. "Even though I'm gonna miss Devon too, crying's just…just…"

Suddenly, Jensen started wailing, and latched himself onto Devon as well. Devon was taken aback once more; the butcher's son had too much _pride_ and _bravado_ to cry. Devon looked over nervously at his girlfriend, hoping that she wouldn't start crying too. He was already buried under two usually strong guy friends, bawling and drowning him in their tears, and he was barely keeping himself from panicking.

Esmeralda looked watery-eyed, but gave him a tight smile, knowing that Devon was out of his element. "How about you two go take a few minutes to, um, calm down…? I don't think you'd want to leave this as a lasting impression…"

After another uncomfortable minute, his crying friends were out of the room, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He gave a wan, grateful smile to the girl. "Thanks, Esmeralda."

"It's no problem," she said quietly, awkwardly standing in front of him. Devon stared at her, wondering why she wasn't sitting down, hoping she wasn't going to make the visit even **more** awkward in some way…

"Um, I need to tell you something, Devon," she started, twisting a strand of her blonde hair around her finger nervously.

"…You're not going to start crying too, are you?" he asked weakly.

"Oh, no! No, this is good news," she told him quickly, giving a small grin. He waited patiently for her answer, giving a benign smile.

The girl took a deep breath, a wide grin blooming on her face. "I'm pregnant."

There was a long pause. Devon stared at her, wide-eyed, feeling like he just got punched in the gut. "But…We only…_made love_…once," he uttered slowly, feeling like his mind and mouth were stuffed with cotton.

Esmeralda's dark eyes shined brightly. "Once can be all it takes…And statistics show that the first time has the highest rate of getting a girl pregnant."

He stared silently at her, a dark thought crossing his mind, his stomach churning. "Are you…sure it's **mine**?" he asked her, giving her a suspicious look.

She gaped at him. "Of course it is! Why wouldn't it be?!" she asked, looking hurt.

Jealous thoughts passed through his head. Esmeralda was very pretty, so it's not like it would be hard for her to find a man to have sex with…

Outwardly, Devon gave a weak shrug, passing his hand through his hair, his expression turning stressed. "I'm just having a hard time believing the news. N-Not that I didn't enjoy it, but that night, erm…Wasn't exactly planned…" he said awkwardly, turning redder by the second, as he buried his face in his hands. "God, we should've waited until we were married…!"

Esmeralda quickly hugged Devon to her chest. "We can do that, when you come back! We've just gone, um, a little out of order, is all…"

The two sat there for another fifteen minutes, the silence thick.

"Holy shit…We're going to be parents…" Devon breathed, still trying to wrap his mind around this bombshell.

Now he would have to fight **twice** as hard. For his new family.

* * *

><p><strong>Regina Gabriella 'Ginny' Saunders, 18, D1<br>**

In the next room over, Ginny and her girlfriend Lilyanne were enjoying themselves immensely, the stress from speaking stiffly with her parents leaving Ginny's body. After Lilyanne had hugged her and babbled about how worried she was, Ginny had kissed her to calm her down, and it simply…escalated from there.

Between heated kisses, the girls were planning out their lives, after Ginny won the Games. They were both determined to get married and stay in Ginny's house in Victor's Village, but they were trying to figure out if they were going to adopt a girl or boy first.

Ginny smirked as the blonde gave a drawn-out moan, that she tried to muffle on Ginny's shoulder. "I win," the dark-haired girl noted in a pleased purr. "A boy, it is."

* * *

><p><strong>Eshana Phoenix, Victor of the 17<strong>**th**** Annual Hunger Games, D2  
><strong>

Eshana lay on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her doctor had told her that meditating could help her sleep, but she simply wiped her mind and stared at the colorful ceiling of her bedroom every single day, until she was forced to get out of bed.

Eshana tilted her head, deciding that if she ever mustered the energy or inspiration, maybe she could try painting another phoenix on her ceiling. One that was crying. Phoenixes apparently had magical healing tears.

How ironic.

Not five minutes later, Eshana heard someone enter her home. She lay there listlessly, noting the precise, confident gait of Riyo—who swiftly entered her bedroom, without a single pause.

"Get up," Riyo ordered, closing the door behind her. Eshana noted that in her peripherals, Riyo was glaring heatedly at her. "Why are you naked, **again**?" she asked, pushing up her glasses. Her face was pink.

Eshana supposed that most people would either feel embarrassed or aroused by being caught naked by another person. The lack of reaction or care always irritated her fellow Victor.

Eshana turned her head to look Riyo squarely, and raised one of her shoulders slightly. "Didn't feel like putting on clothes," she said tonelessly. "It was also hot."

The bespectacled girl gave a scoff, storming off towards Eshana's closet. "We have air conditioning and fans for the heat, Eshana," she said imperiously, as she wrenched open the closet door, and rifled through the hangers.

Eshana didn't answer, looking up at her ceiling to the lava-spewing volcano she'd painted in the corner. It was rarely physically hot in her house; but that wasn't the reason for her feeling warm. She felt that way any time she had nightmares about her Arena—a volcanic wasteland.

Riyo rifled in Eshana's drawers, and finally stomped off to loom over Eshana, a pile of clothing in her arms. "Get dressed," she ordered with a sniff. "Today's the Reaping. You have to be ready and presentable."

"That makes me want to get up even less," Eshana said dully, pointedly looking away from Riyo, who growled. After a minor struggle—in which Eshana lay bonelessly like a sack of potatoes, and Riyo tried to get her to sit up without touching her inappropriately—Eshana was sitting up in her bed.

"Dressing you is **such** a pain," Riyo muttered, as she began to maneuver Eshana's prosthetic limbs, to put her in a black bra. "You see, **this** is why you need a maid. Your mother and I can't do **everything** for you, Eshana!"

"And yet, you do," Eshana noted dully. Riyo gave a sniff, her face turning red.

"W-Well," she spluttered, "**One** of us Victors has to be the responsible one!"

After a few minutes, Eshana was dressed in a white blazer and black skirt. Riyo always dressed her in such an outfit for the Reapings, since Eshana had worn a similar color scheme for her very own Reaping.

Riyo managed to get her to stand up and go to the kitchen. There, her mother already had breakfast ready. Eshana plopped down on a chair, and stared down listlessly at the plate of scrambled eggs, accompanied with a grilled cheese sandwich.

Eshana felt the stares of Riyo and her mother, but didn't feel motivated to actually eat. With a worried sigh, her mother sat next to her, and began to feed her forkfuls of eggs. After the eggs were gone and Eshana didn't move to eat anything else, Riyo pestered her until she slowly picked up the grilled cheese sandwich, and began to slowly eat it.

"Our next stop is Marcus' house," Riyo stated, arms crossed. Eshana's mother rushed into the kitchen, coming back with a plate of eggs and toast for Marcus. Riyo passed the plate to Eshana, when she stood up.

"Take it. **I'll** be the one storming into his house to make the shut-in get up, and I need my hands unoccupied for that," Riyo stated, taking Eshana by her shoulders and steering her out the door.

Eshana trailed behind Riyo, on their trek to Marcus' home. She noted that the yard was becoming unkempt. Riyo wouldn't like that.

"I'll have to hire someone to tend to his lawn, again…" Riyo muttered exasperatedly. "That man should honestly stop firing the help! It's not as if he doesn't do anything other than wallow in his own filth, like a dirty hermit…"

Eshana was silent. **She** would be like Marcus, if she had her way.

She supposes the only reason Riyo was so harsh on Marcus was because he had been her Mentor, and his wallowing disappointed her. It could also be because he abandoned Eshana after her Victory, and fully shut himself off in his house, so he wouldn't have to Mentor another year in his life.

Eshana didn't really blame him for that, even if Riyo did.

The two entered Marcus' home with ease, both heading towards his bedroom. Riyo banged on his door. "You better be awake and clothed!" she yelled loudly through the wood.

The two girls stood silently for a few moments, before they heard the tired croak of "Come in" from their old Mentor. Riyo opened the door and stormed into the room, Eshana slowly stepping in behind her.

Marcus was sitting up on his bed, dressed in a white button-up and black slacks. His hair was a mess, as if he had passed an irritated hand through it multiple times, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He was contemplating a razor with an oddly intense look in his haunted eyes, before he set it aside on his bedside table, and looked up at them.

"Hello, girls," he said tiredly, giving them a wan smile, looking guilty.

Riyo crossed her arms, narrowing his eyes at him. "You weren't thinking of…"

"No," he said tonelessly, shaking his head. He picked up the electronic device sitting next to him, waving it slightly. "I've been speaking with—"

"Sirona," Riyo interjected, nodding her head. "That explains why you're already dressed. Usually, you're just lying there, shirtless, and I have to force you to put some clothes on."

Marcus gave an embarrassed nod. "Yes. And I am very grateful for this new model of cell phone—it slides up with a keyboard on the bottom. It makes it much easier to message others."

Eshana tilted her head, staring at the devise in his hand. Capitol technology was so…odd. She was still getting used to using her **regular** telephone, much less a cell phone.

"Mrs. Phoenix sent you some breakfast," Riyo said, jerking her head back towards the plate in Eshana's hands. Eshana silently stepped forwards, passing Marcus the plate— who nodded and gave a small, grateful smile.

"Although, if you actually **kept** one of the maids I keep trying to get you, you wouldn't have to worry about when your next meal would be…" Riyo added, grumbling. Marcus took that time to eat the plate of food, rather than try and argue with Riyo. Smart.

After he finished, he stood up, putting his cell phone in his pocket. "Alright, girls," he started grimly, "It's time to go."

The three exited his dark home, Riyo muttering all the while about how _she_ was the only reason they would ever get to the Reaping on time. Eshana's mother and Riyo's parents were already outside, ready to go.

The group walked out of the Victor's Village, and towards the Reaping, together. The entire way, Marcus was furiously tapping away on his phone, obviously becoming nervous and agitated as they neared the Reaping. Eshana looked around listlessly at the streets, noting all the white banners and streamers.

Soon enough, the trio were up on the sturdy stage, Riyo commenting that they should try to break the habit of getting to the Reaping just five minutes before it started. The Mayor and their Escort were already in their spots, and the entire Square was filled with the citizens of Two.

Marcus kept his eyes to the phone in his hand, standing stiffly, as if trying his hardest to forget where he was at the moment. Eshana merely stared off into the distance. Riyo was whispering harshly in their ears, trying to get the both of them to _try_ and look professional and interested.

Eshana zoned out after "Welcome". After a few minutes, she finally turned her gaze to their Escort, Lousc Edenshaw, noting that they still looked the same as always. Still 7 feet tall, with their olive-brown skin, silver hair, and built like a Greek warrior.

When the Mayor called the names of the Victors for District Two, the three stepped forwards to become recognized. Eshana and Marcus only gave one curt nod, whilst Riyo waved imperiously, as if she was a queen.

More dull speeches, and then Lousc finally said, "Now, for the female Tribute." Before they could react, there was a quick screech of "I Volunteer!" amongst the crowd.

Eshana blinked owlishly as Zie Raquelle burst out of the 16 year old female section, barreling through her peers.

That wasn't supposed to happen. Zie hadn't been chosen to Volunteer by the Tribute Academy.

Eshana could feel the anger coming off Riyo in waves. "You have **got** to be kidding me! **What** is she doing?!" she hissed, looking ready to skewer the girl— who was cackling happily, as she rushed onto the stage.

Zie stepped up next to the towering Escort, a wild look on her face, smoothing down her sleeveless, pale peach dress. The color went well with the strand of pearls around her neck.

"What's your name, miss…?" Lousc asked, bending down to pass the microphone to the girl, who took it with a bright smile.

"I'm Zie! I like adrenaline rushes, stabbing things with anything that's pointy, and playing card games with Mister the hobo," she said, giving an off-putting, mad giggle. She gave an enthusiastic wave to the camera. "Heeeelloooo! I hope I can get to staaaab you aaaaaall!"

Lousc gave an awkward cough, taking the microphone back. "Interesting," they said, before quickly adding, "Now, the male Tribute." Before the silver-haired Escort could take a step towards the bowl, there came another disturbance.

"Ooh, ooh! Me! Pick me!" exclaimed someone excitedly. Eshana easily picked out that it came from Boom Barrius, who towered over the rest of his peers at 6 feet 5 inches.

The boy was jumping up and down, his hand in the air, a large smile on his face. He wriggled around so much, that his fellow 18 year old boys quickly stepped away from him, in fear of accidentally getting squashed.

Boom bounded out of his section, barreling into many others as he rushed past. Eshana was vividly reminded of a large, playful dog. Boom rushed up to the stage, bright smile in place, looking very smart in his black suit and blue shirt.

Everyone stared at him, as he simply rocked on his feet next to the Escort. He gave a clueless grin, looking around at everyone, before realization dawned on him. "Ohhhh, that's right! I didn't actually Volunteer, huh?" he asked cheerily, bouncing a bit on his heals. "I Volunteer, and stuff!"

Besides her, Riyo facepalmed. "At least no one else took his spot…" she muttered tersely.

After another stiff pause, Lousc spoke. "Ah. And your name…?"

The giant boy leaned over, speaking into the microphone in Lousc's hand. "My name's Boom! Actually, not really— but everyone calls me that!" he started, before looking down at his District partner, and giving her a grin.

"I like fireworks, explosions, and being happy!" he said, taking a leaf out of Zie's book. "Heeeelloooooo! I hope I can blow a looooot of you up—'cuz explosions are a bang, yeah?" he told the cameras, giving a bright grin and an excited wave.

The Escort gave another awkward cough. "Shake hands," Lousc told them. Boom leaned down, and Zie took his large hand in hers, pumping it up and down. The two gave loud, long laughs in-synch; it was slightly unnerving.

"District Two, your Tributes," the Capitolite stated dully. Despite the utter…oddness of the Reaping, and the Volunteers… the crowd still clapped and cheered. The two teens bounced around, hyperactive, waving and smiling to the crowd.

The Reaping officially ended, and about a dozen Peacekeepers swarmed the Tributes, looking very nervous. They stiffly escorted the duo off to the Justice Building, another half-dozen Peacekeepers trying to inconspicuously follow them.

Eshana wasn't fazed by the sight. Boom was a giant who looked intimidating, and had a penchant for being able to blow almost anything up. Zie had run-ins with the Peacekeepers before, because of building jumping and stabbings. It made sense that the Peacekeepers wanted to keep close tabs on them, just in case.

"Good luck with them," Marcus told Eshana and Riyo, giving an amused snort. "You're going to need it." He quickly left them, intent on holing himself back up in his self-made prison.

"That damn shut-in…" Riyo groused, glaring at the man's back. She huffed, throwing her hands up in the hair. "This Reaping was an utter **disaster**! I cannot _believe_ that loony adrenaline junky took Metricity's spot!" she started to rant. "And Isko just reached a whole new level of stupidity! God, I hope that boy actually uses his club, for once—he'll get himself **killed** if he doesn't!"

Eshana merely staid quiet, knowing that the Asian needed to rant, and get it all out of her system. After a few more minutes, Riyo whirled on her.

"I don't think you'd be capable of reigning in that insane little moron," the bespectacled woman stated, crossing her arms. "So **I'll** take Zie. God knows that Isko actually listens to **you** more, anyways…"

Eshana nodded, not particularly caring about who would officially Mentor which Tribute. She and Riyo Mentored as a team, anyways.

* * *

><p><strong>Isko 'Boom' Barrius, 18, D2<br>**

Boom hummed happily, completely ignoring the nervousness of the Peacekeepers escorting him. They took him to a really nice, fancy room, and he '_ooooohed'_ and '_ahhhhed'_ at the décor.

Everything in here looked expensive. Boom carefully padded over to the largest piece of furniture in the room, not wanting to break anything. He wasn't sure if the 'you break it, you buy it' policy was the same here, as it was in stores.

After sitting down on the very large and very comfortable couch, the door opened, and in piled Boom's family of giants. He beamed, stretching out his arms, and his two brothers both rushed and tackled him on the couch.

"I can't believe you're actually going into the Games!" Jejomar—Boom's 16 year old brother—exclaimed.

"I know! It's so coooool!" exclaimed Rizal, bouncing whilst he hugged his eldest brother.

Boom simply laughed, ruffling both of their heads. "I'm pretty stoked about this, too!"

"Do **I** get a chance for a hug?" asked their father, Sayen Barrius, a lopsided grin on his face as he watched his excitable sons. He was rather thin and short compared to the rest of his family of giants—yet standing at a still impressive 5 feet 10 inches, compared to _average_ people.

"Of course," Boom chuckled, somehow managing to rip his younger brothers off of him, and plop them next to him on the quickly-shrinking couch. He stood up, and Sayen stepped forwards, giving him a hug and clap on the back.

After the man pulled back from Boom's bear hug, Jovlyn Barrius finally stepped forwards.

"Please be careful, Boom," she sighed as she hugged her eldest son. She stepped back at arm's length, and started to straighten out his hair and suit.

"Mom, I'll be fine!" Boom said bemusedly, trying to wriggle out of her ironclad grip. "You've seen me Train—heck, you've actually **Trained** me! I'm pretty strong, so there's nothing to worry about!"

His mother huffed, hands on her hips as she glared at him. "As long as you don't stupidly play around with explosions—"

"I know what I'm doing!" he interjected, pouting, giving her puppy-dog eyes. Her mouth became a thin line.

"_Boom_," she started warningly. "If you get yourself killed because of an explosion, I'll kill you with my bare hands, you hear me?!"

"But then he'd be dead," muttered Rizal, confused. "You can't kill someone if they're already dead, can you, Jejomar?"

"I don't think so, Rizal," the middle sibling said, shrugging. Their mother sent a pointed look their way, causing them both to cease speaking. She turned back her attention to Boom, who had a confused half-smile on his face.

"Boom, just…**Promise** me you'll use your club in the Bloodbath," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Explosives can kill many Tributes during the Bloodbath, but it could **also** kill your allies."

Boom blinked, before realization dawned on him. "Ohhhhh—you're right! Thanks for the advice, Mom!" he noted cheerily.

She sighed in fond exasperation, shaking her head. "Come, now. We've got a few hours, before you have to leave. Let's spend them as best we can."

* * *

><p><strong>Terezie 'Zie' Raquelle, 16, D2<br>**

Zie looked around the fancy room, quickly scurrying between all the different objects. She picked up many things, turning them over in her hands, seeing how pointy they were. She put back anything that was boring or didn't have a point, but kept things that she could use as a weapon.

She squirreled away the objects on a cool red couch that was off to the side. After about 10 or so minutes, Zie already had a steady collection of objects. Then, the door opened, and in rushed her aunt.

"Heya, Auntie!" she chirped, giving a wide grin at the frantic woman, absentmindedly twirling a candlestick in her hand.

"Zie!" the woman exclaimed, shaky and pale. She rushed over to hug her niece, bursting into frantic tears.

"Sheesh, this is weird," the teen girl muttered, awkwardly giving her aunt a few pats on the back. "Maybe you should leave if you're just gonna cry on me, Aunt Partridge!"

Before the woman could say anything, Zie had escaped from her hug, and was pushing on the woman's back, forcing her towards the door. "See ya, Auntie!" the crazy girl chirped, after she opened the door. She stepped back to give the woman a quick wave and smile.

"Z-Zie!" the woman stuttered, still wailing. "W-What? No!"

The pudgy woman then promptly fainted, hitting the floor before Zie or the Peacekeepers standing outside could react. Zie stepped forwards, nudging her aunt with her shoe.

"Huh," she noted benignly, before shrugging her shoulders. "Oh well!"

She skipped back towards the couch, twirling the candlestick in her hands like a baton. When she sat down, she saw a man tentatively step over her aunt's unconscious body, and into the room. Zie instantly brightened, recognizing him.

"Mister!" she squealed, bouncing in her seat. The hobo gave a wan smile at the girl, and kept looking back at the unconscious woman.

"Um…Is she going to get any help…?" he asked in concern. The moment he voiced concern, four Peacekeepers rushed over with a stretcher, and began to load the woman onto it. "Oh," he noted blankly.

"Mister! Mistermistermister," Zie babbled, suddenly throwing herself at him in a strong hug. "You actually came to send me off! Yay!"

"Well, of **course** I would," he answered easily, smiling down at the excitable girl. "You're my favorite girl, after all," he told her, rubbing her head like what one would do to a small child.

Zie giggled happily, pulling the man over to sit down next to her on the couch. "It won't be boring, with you here! We can play cards until I have to go, and then I'll be back when I win! Then, you can come and live with me in my super duper Victor's mansion, with my auntie."

She smiled up expectantly at him. The homeless man merely gaped down at her, wide-eyed.

"I…Sure…" he muttered, slowly taking a pack of cards from one of the grubby pockets of his jacket. "Sure thing, Zie. Anything for my favorite girl."

The two played different card games for about five hours straight. District Two was close to the Capitol, so the Tributes had a few hours, anyways. Before the man left the room, he was tackled in another enthusiastic hug.

"You're a good kid. Just like your parents," murmured into her hair, voice thick with grief. "I'm so, so sorry for being the cause of the accident at the quarries, all those years ago. They were good people."

Zie stared blankly at the man's back, as he rushed out of the room. She tried to process, in her mind, what exactly he told her, and the implications.

Before she could fully analyze the homeless man's words, Zie was collected by a squad of wary Peacekeepers. They told her to put back all the stuff she'd gathered from the room. She threw a fit, and had to be restrained.

Zie ended up being dragged forcibly, pouting, towards the train. Somehow, she'd managed to forget Mister's heavy words already—most likely a defense mechanism from her body, so that her mind wouldn't shatter even further than it was.


	9. D3-D4 Reapings: Hey Brother

**AN**: Here it is, the next Reapings chapter, like 3 weeks late or something. It's pretty dramatic, tbh.

* * *

><p>D3-D4 Reapings: Hey Brother<p>

"_Hey, brother! There's an endless road to rediscover,_

_Hey, sister! Know the water's sweet, but blood is thicker,  
>Oh, if the sky comes falling down, for you,<br>There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do."_

* * *

><p><strong>Yoshiro Varsley, Victor of the 13<strong>**th**** Annual Hunger Games, D3**

When Yoshiro woke up, it was to an empty, quiet house.

The young man slowly sat up in his bed, rubbing a hand through his hair in irritation. He'd been dreaming of when he lived with his family. It was such a vivid dream, he literally heard the cacophony of chaos ringing in his ears.

But then he woke up to his large, dead-silent house in the Victor's Village. The difference was jarring, even 8 years later.

"Not like I ever liked the fuckers that made all the racket, though," Yoshiro muttered under his breath, as he shuffled his way towards the kitchen.

And wasn't that the truth? Yoshiro despised his siblings—almost every single one of them was annoying, or an attention hog. He only got lost within the mass of bodies and noise. Never recognized. Never loved. Just the expendable second-youngest.

The man gave a snort whilst he made himself a cup of strongly caffeinated tea. "I should just get over it. Mom and Dad chose those shitstains over me. Old news."

Yoshiro trudged over to his kitchen table, posture weighed down, plunking himself on his usual seat. The table was much too large for one person, and yet he never changed the sitting arrangement.

Maybe a part of him—the attention-craving, love-starved, childish part—thought that one day, someone would join him at the table. Maybe his parents. Maybe a friend.

But Yoshiro Varsley didn't have a family, or friends. He was never one for making friends. And he'd been cast from his family ever since he was Reaped for the Hunger Games. Victory and riches didn't do shit to mend his relationship with his parents, and he hated his siblings anyways, so he was estranged from the Varsleys.

Yoshiro took a long drag from his mug, giving a small sigh. He didn't even know how his (former) family was doing...

The young man drifted off to his room. He was itching to play some chess—even though he would have to play against himself. Again.

A knock on his door caused him to raise an eyebrow inquisitively, before changing directions.

"Brats, I **just** bought some cookies from you yesterday," Yoshiro called in annoyance, as he yanked the door open. But standing before him wasn't those little uniformed girls from the bakery that sold him some damn delicious cookies just yesterday evening.

Standing before him was a strangely handsome man. Yoshiro's eyes widened, as he gave an incredulous look at the man. He had to look upwards; this guy towered him at least a half fucking foot. "Who the hell are you?"

The guy—who seemed to be around his age— gave Yoshiro an amused grin. The Victor noted that he had messy dark navy hair, and almond-shaped golden eyes. He was dressed in an expensive-looking navy suit, embroidered with a complex circuitry pattern. So a Capitol bastard, eh?

"It's nice to meet you, Victor Varsley. I'm your new Escort—Maraquiis Harmajav," the strange Capitolite said.

"Who the fuck names their kid Mah-rah-qwees?" Yoshiro wondered aloud, nose wrinkling at the weird name. He gave a scoff, grumbling under his breath, "Capitolites…"

"My parents decided that mashing together consonants from two obscure languages would produce a great name. You should see how it's spelt," the golden-eyed man responded with a lopsided grin, not looking at all offended.

Yoshiro paused, staring straight into Maraquiis's eyes critically, before giving a slow nod. "Well, at least you didn't burst into hysterics like the last one. Welcome to your new shitty job, Harmajav," the younger man noted with a bark of humorless laughter.

The taller man gave an exaggerated bow. "A pleasure, I'm sure," he drawled, smirking.

Yoshiro cocked an eyebrow; this guy was **way** different from all the past Escorts for Three. Interesting.

About damn time the Capitol managed to give him someone who could tough him out.

"**And** you have a sense of humor. Here's me to hoping you're half as competent as you are pretty," Yoshiro noted dryly, before standing aside and jerking his head in towards the interior of his house. "I assume you're here to drag my ass to the Reapings, so come in—I need to get dressed properly, unless oversized sweaters are 'in' this season."

Maraquiis stepped inside, as Yoshiro closed the door. "Well, they usually are…for young women."

"Do I **look** like a little girl?!" Yoshiro spluttered, looking up at the amused smirk of the Escort.

Maraquiis blinked innocently, tilting his head to the side slightly, looking oddly endearing. "I was simply stating a fact, Victor Varsley. However, I believe that you can change the trend, if you really wanted to."

"Oh **hell** no," Yoshiro groused. "I'm already short as shit—If I wear oversized clothes, I'll look like a brat. No thanks," he snarked, before turning on his heel and striding purposefully towards his room.

Five minutes later, and Yoshiro was in black slacks and a black collared button-up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and first two buttons undone. Maraquiis gave an appreciative bout of applause, and Yoshiro gave an exaggerated, pompous thank you. The duo left his home, making their way through the packed, cracked cement streets towards the Reaping.

They ascended the stage, Yoshiro complaining all the while to Maraquiis, who humored him. The Victor then had to soldier through the mind-numbingly boring speeches, before the ceremony got to the part that everyone actually gave a fuck about: the names.

"To change it up a bit, as my first year Escorting Three…Gentlemen first," the Escort noted, giving a pleasant smile to the crowd. He strode towards one of the glass bowls, quickly choosing a name, before returning to the microphone.

"Malcolm Fritz."

Yoshiro looked at the crowd critically. The 17 year old male section parts almost instantaneously, the boys looking relieved to distance themselves from the brown-skinned boy that wore all black.

The tall boy looked shocked for approximately three seconds, before his face is set in a mulish expression. He marches right up to the stage, and when he's next to Maraquiis, demands something so ludicrous that Yoshiro bursts into a disbelieving exclamation of "What in the everlasting fuck?".

"I want—nay, I **demand**—you to show me the slip of paper, Escort Harmajav! As proof that it is, in fact, **my** name that was called!" the boy states heatedly, arms crossed. "**Well**?"

Maraquiis took the fiasco in stride. He merely gave a placating, amused grin, before holding the slip of paper right in front of the teen's gaze. The boy ripped the piece of paper from the Capitolite's grip, intently staring down at it, his face set in a grim line.

Malcolm then proceeded to make a bigger ass of himself, if that was even possible. "Is there any other citizen of Reaping age in District Three with the same name as Malcolm Fritz, who might have also been called forth?" he asked loudly to the Square.

His question, of course, was met with silence. Yoshiro literally facepalmed at the utterly moronic theatrics that this Reaping was, so far.

Somewhere in the crowd of kids, one girl yelled, "You're the only loser named Malcolm Fritz, you tool! Get on with the Reaping!"

Yoshiro gave a snort of laughter. Whoever the bitch was, she had an irritating voice—but at least she was to the point.

Malcolm gave a pointed glare at a spot in the crowd. So he most likely knew the girl. That was _hilarious_.

Through this entire debacle, Maraquiis was still standing coolly, a bemused grin on his face. "Well, Reaping the boys first has given us an…interesting…start. Now, for the ladies."

The Capitolite strode over to the second glass bowl, quickly snatching a slip, and returned to the microphone.

"Hanako Varsley."

Yoshiro felt his blood go cold. Everything suddenly seemed to slow down to a crawl.

No. No, no, no. How was this possible?

Hanako was the youngest, but she should be **safe**. She was only about three years younger than him, so she should be 19. She shouldn't be Reaped.

Unless...Unless he got her birthday wrong.

"Oh shit," Yoshiro muttered aloud. He watched with wide eyes as his little sister nervously skittered forwards, looking as pale and shocked as he felt. As she slowly ascended the steps, he was suddenly hit with the realization that Hanako would be turning 19 in a week's time.

"Are there any Volunteers?" Maraquiis asked, tone somewhat solemn. To Yoshiro, he sounded miles away.

And then the most beautiful, irritating screech in the history of Yoshiro's young life burst through the silent Square like a jackhammer to cement. "I Volunteer!"

"What the hell?" Yoshiro muttered shakily, watching as a dark-haired girl from the 17 year old female section strut confidently towards the stage.

Hanako gave a relieved, strangled squeak. Much to his shock, she threw herself into Yoshiro's arms into a tight hug that knocked the wind out of him, before quickly skittering off the stage.

Yoshiro watched his little sister rush off to hug and cry into his parents' embrace, before ripping his gaze away and onto the insane girl that had decided to Volunteer.

The girl was around average height, and yet was still at least three inches taller than Yoshiro. She had long, straight black hair, blue eyes, and a snobbish upturned nose. She was confident, looking upon the crowd imperiously. She might have been attractive, if she didn't look like a royal bitch.

"Your name, Miss…?" the Capitolite asked, intrigued, as he angled the microphone towards the girl.

"Vulca Spark!" she answered, somehow injecting the very essence of snobbery into her voice. "I'm going to be your next Victor—and then I'll make Three a strong, Career District, like it deserves!"

"My, my, how interesting," the navy-haired man noted. "Well, you sure look like a Victor—that red dress of yours reminds me of something from Victor Angel Shine."

Vulca puffed up in pride, throwing out her chest exaggeratedly. "Well of course—I only wear the best," she purred. Malcolm scoffed, rolling his eyes besides Vulca, who threw an ugly sneer at him.

"Didn't the Career girl from One last year wear the same damn thing?" Yoshiro muttered under his breath, eyeing the cloth that was considered a 'dress' dubiously. Maraquiis gave a twitch and a small cough, looking like he wanted to laugh.

"Tributes, shake hands," the golden-eyed man ordered. The two teens faced one another with disgusted sneers on their faces, reluctantly shaking hands. The second their hands parted, they furiously wiped them on their clothing.

"District Three, your Tributes!" Maraquiis called. Oddly enough, the Square burst into applause and cheers.

Yoshiro scrunched his brow, trying to figure out what the hell was happening. He then came to the realization that those cheering were close to the duo's age group—16 to 18—as well as those from rich families.

So apparently Malcolm and Vulca's peers found them **really** fucking annoying, and one or both of them somehow pissed off people in rich families. Plus, the cheering was more in the sense of "_thank god they're gone_" and "_I'm glad it's not me_", rather than actual support for them.

Great, so he was stuck with some annoying brats for Tributes.

Yoshiro watched as the two teens were escorted off the stage and towards the Justice Building. A part of him told him that he should be grateful that the Tributes this year looked at least somewhat competent—they weren't small, weak, and underfed. The boy seemed intelligent, and the girl would gain Sponsors from the Capitol.

As the Square slowly dispersed, Yoshiro was also painfully reminded that despite whatever scathing thoughts he had over them, it still stood that Vulca Spark Volunteered to take Hanako's place. His sister just barely managed to escape an impending death because of the overconfident girl who held a voice of nails on a chalkboard. And Malcolm had fight in him—he didn't want to believe that he was Reaped, wanted to go against the Capitol however he could.

He could respect that.

No matter how grating this duo could be, Yoshiro still gave them a basic modicum of respect.

Maraquiis slowly walked over, standing next to the short man. The two looked out at the Square, staring at the large family of half-Asians that were hugging and fussing over the girl that had been Reaped.

"You should go to them," the Capitolite stated. Yoshiro snapped his head over to shoot a look at him.

"I haven't been a part of the family for 8 years," he stated dully, his gaze soon falling back on the Varsley family. He felt sick to his stomach, something deep within him yearning for him to go to them.

"I think they can make an exception for today. Go. Your sister would want it," Maraquiis said, gently pushing Yoshiro towards the stairs.

Taking a large breath, Yoshiro squared his shoulders, and walked towards the Varsley family.

_His_ family.

Yoshiro knew that he had made the right decision, when Hanako latched herself onto him, his parents quickly following suit, before his entire family enveloped him in an embrace.

In that moment, now matter how fleeting it would be, Yoshiro had a family again.

* * *

><p><strong>Malcolm Fritz, 17, D3<strong>

Malcolm sat on a comfortable chair inside the ornate room, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. He wanted to get this trainwreck of sentimentality over and done with as quickly as possible.

Malcolm's dark eyebrows ascended to his untidy hairline when his parents passed through the door.

He had considered the possibility of them coming to send him off, of course, but it was still odd to see his uptight, traditional parents place themselves in the presence of their disowned son.

His mother looked awful—sunken face, hunched posture, red-rimmed and tear-filled eyes. His father looked mildly distressed, which was odd for the usually reserved man.

Before anyone could speak, Azariah Fritz wrapped her petite body around her son, and sobbed noisily into his chest. "It's all my fault!" she wailed. "You and your sister only made bad decisions because I didn't teach you well enough! And now you're being shipped off to a deathmatch!"

Malcolm felt baffled and lost. At that moment, he wished he had read how to comfort others, if only to make his mother stop weeping and dispel the tension. Logan Fritz stood off to the side, arms crossed, looking the mirror image of his son.

The next hour was spent in painful awkwardness as his parents tried to reconcile with him, and mend their destroyed relationship. It got so frustrating that Malcolm finally just stood up in a huff, and dismissively told them to leave, because they were wasting his time for goodbyes.

Their relationship wasn't exactly that good to begin with, and it's been about a year and change since he was disowned. An hour was a paltry attempt to make either party satisfied.

Next skittered in his sister, Felicity. Malcolm relaxed his stiff stance slightly, giving a curt grin down at the timid young woman. A staring contest ensued between the siblings, before Malcolm finally gave in. He gave a sigh, opening his arms slightly. "Come now—I know that you want to hug me, and spout sentimental and uplifting things to me."

Felicity did just that. It was definitely much less awkward than the goodbye with his parents—although, Malcolm regrettably could hear Vulca's annoying screeching from the other room.

After a half hour, Felicity finally left, replaced by the person that Malcolm had been looking forwards to seeing.

"Malcolm, my boy!" boomed good old Amadeus Kingsley, sweeping the tall teen in a bear hug. "It's a shame that your argumentative skills could not get you out of the Reaping, eh? It was still a token effort, all the same!"

"Thank you, Professor Kingsley," Malcolm said fondly, giving the wisened man the largest, most genuine smile he'd ever given in his life.

The next few hours were spent pleasantly. Malcolm felt confident and at ease with his caretaker-slash-professor-slash-friend. When a peacekeeper knocked at the door to inform them that Malcolm was to board the train in five minutes, Amadeus stopped his stream of soothing small talk.

Malcolm eyed Amadeus critically as he dug through his pockets, before presenting his protégée with a small flask.

"For your Token—it can hold water, and other liquids, in a pinch," the old man said, giving a bright smile. Malcolm just couldn't say no to taking the object as his Token, unlike how declined his parents and sister of providing him one.

Carefully, the teen took the flask on his hands, unscrewing the top to look inside. There was already liquid in it. Malcolm took a sniff, wrinkling his nose and jerking back at the foul smell.

"Alcohol? And for a minor?" he questioned, befuddled. Amadeus scratched the back of his head, giving a sheepish chuckle.

"Forgot I didn't empty it. Oh well—you can do whatever you please with the rum," the old man said lightly, giving a shrug of his shoulders.

Malcolm shook his head fondly, giving Amadeus a soft smile, and one final hug. "Thank you."

* * *

><p><strong>Vulca Spark, 17, D3<strong>

When Vulca's family entered the room, Vulca stomped right to her stepfather.

"You get **one** hug, then you either stay in the corner, or you leave," she ordered imperiously, jabbing a manicured nail at the man.

"Vulca!" exclaimed Remilia Spark, looking at her daughter, aghast. Edmund gave a tight, fake smile, gritting his teeth.

"No, honey, I understand," he said tightly, placing a calming hand on the woman's shoulder. "I can't ever replace her birth father. It pains me _deeply_, but I suppose I'll just _have_ to say goodbye, and leave you to speak with her."

Vulca glared venomously at the man, who matched her glare. They slowly, stiffly stepped forwards, embracing each other coldly for three seconds. Then they quickly parted, sneers on their faces, stepping back away from each other.

"Good luck, princess. You'll need it," her stepfather stated dryly, before shooting a charming grin at her mother and exiting the room.

Soon enough, her sister and mother were smothering her in hugs, whilst Vulca smiled smugly. She spent the rest of the goodbyes prattling away in her shrill voice, a pretty necklace her mother gave her displayed proudly on her neck. It was great, having such supportive family members.

And she was sure that the Hunger Games would be a cakewalk.

* * *

><p><strong>Mags Cohen, Victor of the 9<strong>**th**** Annual Hunger Games, D4**

Mags woke up early in the morning to the sound of Festus' snores. She rolled to her side, looking over at the edge of the bed, noting that Festus was sleeping like a rock despite camping out on the floor.

Then again, the carpet was very soft and cushiony. Her little nieces and nephews dragging her to sit down on the floor constantly made her an expert on the comfort of her mansions' carpet.

Mags kept looking down at the young man with a fond smile. She'd managed to convince him that it was okay for him to camp out in her room the night before the Reaping—and he's done so ever since his first year of Mentorship, during the 17th Games. He'd always be embarrassed, but also grateful for the support.

Festus just really needed someone to be there for him. To be his family. It had been obvious to her, ever since he'd been a fresh-faced Victor. So she'd adopted him into her family, and he's been an unofficial Cohen ever since. Like a little brother to her.

Which was why she would do whatever she could to protect him, like he was any other Cohen. Lie for him. Act for him. Cheat for him.

Mags flopped down a hand, pensively running it through his soft, wavy hair. Maybe if she wasn't already committed to someone, she would tie herself to him. Just so she could protect him more. So that he wouldn't get…Sold.

The thought brings bile to her throat, even if she's calmed by the little blissful smile on his face, and how he unconsciously snuggles into her hand like a puppy.

She would try to protect Festus as long as she could, but she doesn't know how long that would even be. Eventually, things could fall apart. Maybe her girlfriend will get tired of keeping their relationship secret, or the Capitol will figure out that she and Festus aren't romantically inclined to each other.

The rushing tide of the sea will eventually sweep them away, crushing their castles to fine sand.

But for now, things are holding up. The castle is still strong. The tide is still low.

A sudden knock on her bedroom door dispelled her poetic, and somewhat morbid, thoughts.

Festus gave a sleepy snort, jerking awake. Mags instantly placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him, to keep him from jumping to his feet and attacking invisible enemies.

"Dears, you should get ready for breakfast!" came the voice of Mags' mother through the wood. "It'll take us a high-tide-and-a-half to get the entire clan ready and to the Reaping, you know how it is!"

"Coming Mama!" Mags called out, followed by a groggy thanks from Festus. The two went down to the 'main' kitchen of the mansion, Mags all but dragging the sleepy man despite her smaller frame.

The hour and a half that followed was a cacophony of chaos. The main kitchen, dining room, and living room were packed with various family members. That was the beauty of having a mansion—Mags was able to host and house many people, even her siblings' families.

Festus constantly growled about all her nieces and nephews that ate messily or got themselves dirty. He fussed over them, cleaning them up before they touched him and got him "full of snot and germs and syrup".

Although, he **did** have a point. The blouse and pants she was wearing were dirty and sticky from all the children sitting on her lap or tugging at her to get her attention. Festus' muscle shirt and workout pants weren't in a better state.

After breakfast, many of the Cohens doubled back to change themselves into their Reaping best. Festus told her he would meet up with them later, before jogging over to his mansion to change properly.

Before Mags could get to her bedroom, someone latched onto her from behind with a giggle. The blonde relaxed, a grin on her face as she realized that it was her secret girlfriend.

"Hey, Felisa. Glad you could come over," Mags hummed serenely.

"Of course I'd be here—you're my favorite girl, after all," Felisa answered with a tinkling laugh, before letting go. "You need help putting on your Reaping clothes?" she asked with a cheeky smile and a raised eyebrow.

Mags tilted her head, giving an amused grin. "I don't even know what I'm going to wear."

"Well, I can help with that!" the other woman chimed, bouncing into Mags' room, her long, brown hair swaying behind her.

The next twenty minutes were spent with Felisa critically dressing and re-dressing Mags in many outfits. Felisa was always a physical person, so the questionable and constant contact wouldn't seem suspicious to anyone—not to family, and not to any spies.

They were both careful, after all. Mags was sure to tell Felisa that they couldn't get romantic in her mansion, since it was a large possibility that it was bugged. And so far, Felisa's managed to act like she was simply Mags' best friend, instead of girlfriend.

Honestly, the ironclad grip the Capitol had on even the Victors was getting _ridiculous_.

Eventually, Mags was dressed in a blue sundress. The family managed to coral themselves together in front of the entrance, ready to leave. Festus jogged over, in a white button-up, navy vest, and navy slacks. After everyone double-checked that they were ready, the large congregation ambled out of the Victor's Village.

After a very noisy, upbeat journey, the Cohens stepped into the large cobblestoned area that would hold the Reapings. No matter how many times the Cohen clan tried to leave early for the Reapings, they always barely managed to arrive before the Reaping would start. The area was mostly filled, the Mayor and Escort waiting on the stage.

The Escort for District Four smiled at them, clad in a sparkly blue dress that left little to the imagination, her gaze lingering hungrily on Festus. The young man shifted uncomfortably, trying to discreetly ignore the plastic, spray tanned, glittery leech that was Gucci Sweets.

Mags politely smiled out at the crowd, carefully tuning out the grating sound of Gucci's voice. From Festus's glazed look, he was doing the same.

Honestly, the speeches became much less enjoyable, since Gucci became Escort 5 years ago. Before, at least Mags had **listened**.

Gucci's squeal pierced through Mags' reverie with the force of a tsunami upon the shoreline, but much less pleasant. "And now, to choose the Tributes! I think I'll keep up my little tradition—So gentlemen first!"

Mags was suddenly struck with a bout of panic. Her family was extensive—what if a Cohen was Reaped? One of her nephews, or cousins?

Mags gave a sigh in relief when the name was called, and it didn't belong to someone she was related to. She then instantly felt guilty at her selfishness, especially when the trembling, scrawny boy slowly ascended the steps.

"Are there any Volunteers?" The Capitolite asked, eyes roving around the crowd, obviously hoping to have a Tribute that was more competent than the quivering boy. Four was slowly morphing into a Career District that gave training to the children of the District, after all. It's possible that there would be someone daring enough to Volunteer, who had a modicum of Training.

Although, Volunteering in Four wasn't very popular, yet. Neither was the Training Center that Festus created. But it was a way to prepare future Tributes. That was the shining benefit of the Training Center—so it **had** to pay off, at some point.

There was a long silence. Gucci pouted in disappointment, ready to stride over to the next bowl, but a voice stopped her.

"I Volunteer as Tribute!" rang the exclamation across the clearing.

The boys in the 16 year old section parted. A tall, olive-toned boy strode confidently towards the stage, wearing a tight black muscle shirt and low-riding pants. He looked like he could be a poster boy for Four in the Capitol—he had all the Four traits that the Capitol loved, barring his dark eyes.

The teen ran a hand through his hair, making it artfully tussled, as he took the stage. He gave a smile cranked up to 11 on the charming scale; Mags could almost see the cheesy romance novel rose petals surrounding him.

"What's your name, handsome?" Gucci purred, leering at the boy as she passed the microphone to him.

"Lex Calder. Best fighter in Four—and your newest Victor," Lex answered with a broad smile and wink towards the crowd. Mags raised her eyebrows when a roar of squealing accompanied the statement.

So Lex already had fangirls…? Oh boy.

He'll be very…popular…in the Capitol.

Mags felt slightly ill, knowing that the boy didn't know of his possible future profession, if he managed to win this year's Games.

Gucci have an ear-piercing squeal. "Oh, wonderful! And now, for the ladies!"

Once again, Mags sent a small prayer to the heavens to protect her nieces and cousins from getting Reaped.

Her hopes crashed down around her when the name "Briar Indigo!" was called. Loud gasps erupted across the clearing, coming mostly from the Cohens.

Briar didn't share the Cohen surname, but she was still part of the family through her mother, Pearl. Oftentimes, when the girl's parents were too busy at work, Briar and her younger siblings would visit Mags—who would be more than happy to spend time with them.

The fifteen year old female section parted slowly to show Mags' niece, clad in a tan-colored, knee-length dress, her blonde hair tied up. Briar looked shocked, her face pale, eyes wide.

"Did…Did she really say my name?" Briar asked listlessly, turning to a girl next to her for confirmation. The girl whispered in Briar's functioning ear, causing Briar to sag and slowly trudge towards the stage.

Every step Briar took felt like a nail getting hammered into Mags' heart.

Halfway to the stage, a tall, dark-skinned girl burst from the pens. "Briar!" she screamed, running over to the blonde girl.

"Georgia!" Briar responded. But instead of hugging her, like Mags expected, Briar shoved the dark-skinned girl away. "Go back to your section, before you get in trouble!"

Georgia gaped like a fish. "Y-You just got Reaped, and you're worried about **me**? Please, Briar, let me…"

"No," Briar stated firmly, before biting her lip, looking lost. "No, I…You've never trained. I couldn't let you do that, Georgia."

"No fuckin' way…" Festus muttered incomprehensibly. "Did she really just…?" he hissed into Mags' ear.

"Yes," Mags muttered, pained. She **wanted** to blame Briar for not taking the option of _saving herself_, but she just **couldn't**. She understood where Briar came from, since they shared similar temperaments. Mags wouldn't want one of her good friends to Volunteer to take her place; she'd never forgive herself.

And even though Briar looked like she was in a fierce struggle with the issue, she was too soft-hearted to throw Georgia to the sharks.

When Briar finally stepped up onto the stage, she used her swiftness to hug Mags fiercely before someone could try and stop her.

"Oh…? Are you two…**related**?!" the Capitolite squealed, eyes gleaming in interest, a hungry smile on her face.

"Briar is my niece," Mags stated curtly, her mouth a hard line. She then gently coaxed the girl from her. Briar sniffed, but slowly made her way back towards her District partner and Escort.

"Well, this Reaping has been **exciting**, hasn't it, folks?!" Gucci exclaimed giddily, looking like she won a prize. "Now Tributes, shake hands!"

Lex took Briar's hand in his, giving a comforting, sympathetic grin down at her. Mags noted that Briar ducked her head, cheeks flushing pink.

Soon enough, Gucci was asking for a standing ovation, obviously proud of her new Tributes. Lex's fangirls were going wild, but at least half of the District was stonily silent. Out of respect, no doubt, for the bravery of both Tributes.

Mags watched as the two teens were taken away to the Justice Building for their goodbyes. She would be seeing Briar in a few hours, and from then on, they would be spending a lot of time together.

"Out of all the kids that coulda been Reaped…It had to be Briar," Festus muttered, eyes dark and mouth taut.

Mags sagged under the weight of the daunting journey ahead. "We'd been lucky before, since I'd been the only Cohen to get Reaped. But now our luck's run out."

The two were silent, staring solemnly at the flock of Cohens that were making their way towards the Justice Building. The sea breeze caressed their faces, causing their eyes to sting.

"I'll do the best I can for her, even if I ain't her mentor," Festus said, breaking the silence. Mags looked over at him in surprise. "I'm still her uncle, yeah? So even if I got Lex to worry over, I'll still have your back in helpin' her."

"Thank you, Festus," she answered softly.

He gently took her hand in his, giving a wane smile down at her. "C'mon, we're a team, ain't we? You've helped me so many times, it's 'bout time I give back and be useful."

At least Festus would be by her side, when their castle would come crashing down. Like family.

* * *

><p><strong>Briar Indigo, 15, D4<strong>

Briar hadn't even been sitting on the large black couch for five seconds before the door burst open.

From that moment on, there was a constant stream of people coming in and out of the room. All of them were family members of hers. Cohens, no matter how distantly related, came to wish her good luck and tell her how proud they were of her strength of character.

It was rather disorienting, all these people. And yet, it was much better to be surrounded by family, than to be alone in a quiet room. Briar was used to always being in a crowd, and liked being close to people.

Thankfully, she had enough time to properly interact with the Cohen clan. District Four was close to the Capitol, so she had a few hours before she was to leave. Briar sat, surrounded by her parents and siblings on the couch, talking warmly with all her visitors.

After three hours, the stream died down. Now it was only a few people loitering in the large, ornate room. And yet, Georgia Rose hadn't come in at all.

Briar's heart clenched painfully when she realized this. Was Georgia so angry at Briar declining her offer of Volunteering in her place, that she wouldn't say goodbye…?

That thought hurt her deeply. Briar looked down sadly at the coral blue ring on her right hand, fiddling with it.

Briar didn't let Georgia Volunteer for her, for the girl's own good. Georgia might be older and taller than her, but she'd never Trained. She didn't even have the intent to spear a worm on a hook—so how could she just expect Briar to stand back and let someone as pacifistic as her head into a death match, like a lamb to slaughter?

Then again, maybe she was being hypocritical. Who was she kidding—Briar didn't have any actual killing intent within her, either. She was great at archery because she used against targets and dummies, not living, breathing people.

And Briar would have **definitely** Volunteered for Georgia Rose, if she'd been Reaped instead. Even if it was stupid or impulsive or downright suicidal, she would've.

As Briar worried and debated in her head, she was bodily shaken from her thoughts by her siblings.

"Briar, you'll come back…right?" Penelope asked her big sister, eyes wide and imploring, a tight grip on her arm.

"Of course she will! Right, Briar?" Augustus asked, staring up at Briar as well from the other side.

Briar was at a loss of words, belatedly noticing that her immediate family were the only ones left in the room. Her eyes burned with tears as she looked down at the sight of her naïve, hopeful brother and sister.

"I'll try," she said, voice thick, unable to come up with a more satisfying answer. Briar was then brought into a tight hug from her mother, who started to cry wetly into her shoulder.

Marlin Indigo took that time to try and redirect his youngest children's questions. "Your Aunt Mags and Uncle Festus will do their best to bring Briar back," he told the little ones, voice deep and rumbling.

"But there's a chance that Briar can't come back, and will stay in the Capitol. And no—complaining can't change that," he added, noting the mulish expressions on the Augustus and Penelope's faces. "But you can support your sister by cheering for her, and believing in her, like good little siblings are supposed to."

The two young ones seemed to buy their father's explanation. To them, he was big and strong, and knew everything.

Once her mother let her go, Briar was drawn into a tight hug by her father. "I'm sorry I haven't been at home as much as I should have," he murmured in her good ear. She felt her already wet shoulder get even wetter, but her father didn't shake or sob. He was like a peaceful tide, in his grief.

A knock came on the door, and a Peacekeeper stuck his head inside. "You should start wrapping up. There's one more visitor to see you—and you'll be cutting it close."

There was a frantic flurry of hugs and farewells, before her family left. After a few seconds, Georgia Rose tentatively stepped into the room.

Before Briar could apologize or exclaim happily, the dark-skinned girl barreled into her, crying hysterically.

"You…Y-you better c-come back!" Georgia wailed, clutching the shorter girl protectively. "I can look after P-Penelope and Augustus, b-but they'll need their big sister, y-you hear?!"

"Of course," Briar said thickly, burying her head in the other girl's chest. "I'll come back, for all of you."

* * *

><p><strong>Lex Calder, 16, D4<strong>

Lex let out an exasperated sigh when his large, dysfunctional family started to loudly fight outside his door. He wouldn't be surprised if it came down to a full out brawl, the way it was escalating.

Lex didn't really care about any of them. He's had so many step mothers and half-fathers and partial-siblings, that it was a headache. After his birth parents divorced, they went around cheating, marrying, remarrying, and birthing kids left, right, and center. He didn't even know half of his family—his family tree was **that** much of a clusterfuck.

The sad part was that Lex literally did not give a shit about anyone in his family other than his birth father. His Dad was the one who taught him to box, who helped him become the best, who showed him how to become emotionally detached from others.

So, ironically, Lex wasn't even _that_ attached to his Dad.

Whilst his family kept debating hotly over who had the right to say goodbye to him, Lex's fangirls had come in to say goodbye and cheer him on. He gave them very fake, tired smiles, yet they still ate it up.

Then came some trainees from the Training Center. That was slightly more interesting.

The kid that Lex Volunteered for, accompanied by his family, came in to thank him and grovel. Lex shrugged dismissively at them. "I felt bad for someone so obviously unprepared to go into the Games, and I'm one of the best fighters. You do the math," he told them bluntly.

As the family awkwardly shuffled out of the room, Leila Breen and Gavin Detrench entered. "Sorry, it was hard getting in…" Leila muttered.

"Your family is insane, dude," Gavin noted with a snort, sitting down next to him. "They've started some twisted version of Family Feud."

Lex gave his two best friends a fond smile, before bringing both of them into a group hug. They were the only people he was attached to, the only ones he would completely drop his walls and masks for.

The three say in silence, before Leila murmured, "So, this is really happening."

"Yup. But don't worry—I'll be back," Lex told them. "And hopefully, it won't be in a casket."

In that moment, Lex decided that his family was worthless to him. He'll be coming back, crowned Victor, for his friends.


	10. D5-D6 Reapings: Come Together

**AN**: Who needs passing grades when you can completely forgo homework and instead write fanfiction about doomed teenagers, am I right?

I guess I forgot warnings for last chapter, but I'm remembering for this chapter. Warning: suicidal thoughts, depression, mentions of self harm, abandonment issues, shady business, and god-awful puns. You've been warned. :V

* * *

><p>D5-D6 Reapings: Come Together<p>

"_We've got hopes on the horizons,  
>We can't stop from the climbing the mountain,<br>We're sick and tired of keeping silent,  
>We are, we are, we are,<br>We are gonna come together_."

* * *

><p><strong>Creselia Fortuna, Victor of the 5<strong>**th**** Annual Hunger Games, D5**

Creselia blissfully awoke, curled up next to her husband. She noted that his messy hair was even more tussled from his fretful sleeping patterns.

It was ironic that Creselia could doze off and sleep like a rock, in one position, and yet her innocent husband tossed and turned like he was plagued by the devil. Theoretically and logically, their roles should be reversed: **she** should have a fruitless sleep because of trauma from her Games, and **he** should sleep like a comatose individual.

Then again, Haru was always a worrier. **Especially** over her. Every since they were kids, he'd been protecting and leading her around. Creselia merely lived through everything in a daze, not quite caring about responsibilities or reality—so he did that for her.

Maybe she could sleep peacefully, because she was safe from the Hunger Games forever. Safe from killing. Safe from troubles in her cushy life of Victory.

After all, no other Victor could not boast that they won by not killing a Tribute, merely hiding and outlasting every single one. Only **she** was able to pull this off, since she'd been so forgettable and flighty and seemingly useless that even those overseeing the Games had forgotten of her presence.

"Mmmm, perhaps it was luck," she murmured. Her low mumbling was enough to jolt her husband mid-snore.

"Luck's bullshit," he muttered groggily, sitting up and passing a hand through his red hair, a small line of drool seeping from his mouth. "You won on skill."

Creselia felt amused, a small grin tugging on her lips. "How did you come to the conclusion that I was referring to my Games? I could have simply been thinking about luck in general."

"I know the tone you take, whenever you start doubting yourself," he gave her a playful poke on her stomach, causing her to giggle. "And you **know** I don't believe in luck."

"But luck **does** exist," Creselia intoned, feeling her mind slip away through various paths within it. "There's a boy in this very District who has so much luck, he could very well swim in it…"

Her husband groaned. "Not like I don't hear about **him** every damn time I pass even remotely close by the casino, or anything."

"Do you think that having so much luck can turn it into a curse, rather than a blessing?" Creselia wondered, tilting her head. "After all, when there is good luck, there is also bad luck. If you constantly have good luck, would bad luck kick in? Or would it lurk in the shadows, growing stronger, until it becomes a great tragedy that will befall that person?"

The Victor followed a long trail of the thought in her stream of consciousness, before she was brought out of her musings and vacant stare by her husband. He ruffled her blonde hair fondly, and she belatedly realized that she was somehow already dressed.

Oh. He must have dressed her whilst she was lost in her thoughts. Again.

He really must stop doing that.

"You really must stop doing that," she told him lightly. Haru Fortuna nee Puzzler gave an amused snort.

"If I didn't, you'd be at least an hour late to every place you have to go to," he pointed out with a chuckle, straightening his red tie. Creselia gave a small pout, pulling him towards her by said tie, threading her fingers through his messy hair.

"I don't exactly have many events to attend," she stated, making a small braid on the left side of his head, as was habitual. After she was done, he dipped his head forwards to give her a sweet kiss.

"You'd fall asleep anywhere you go, anyways," he said in a soft, teasing voice. "Honestly, if you hadn't been checked by both Sirona and Red, I'd think that you were narcoleptic."

"It's not narcolepsy if I can control it…Somewhat," she said lightly, a vague smile spreading on her face.

"Somewhat," he deadpanned.

"Yes, somewhat. Dreams can oftentimes be much more interesting than reality…" she stated, feeling her mind slip into the thousands of wonderful possibilities.

Before long, the couple exited the Fortuna house. They both paused politely a few seconds, and their albino neighbor promptly exited his own home.

"Hn," Frost Raider acknowledged the couple, coolly ambling alongside them, hands stuffed in his suit's pockets. His suit was a light, cool grey. Creselia wasn't surprised at all.

Creselia fell into an easy daze as they meandered their way towards the death lottery ceremony, only pulled out by it by a sharp tug on her arm by her fellow Victor.

"You're going to fall," he warned her bluntly, pointedly steering her slowly up the steps of the stage. He hovered next to her once they took their places, somehow both disinterested and protective at the same time.

"I don't think Chartreuse will take well to me ruining the ceremony by falling," she noted benignly, gaze drifting off towards the nervous, nitpicky Capitolite. "So I suppose you'll have to catch me, if I do.'

"I won't have any problems doing so, because I'm just that—" here, Frost lowered the dark sunglasses he perpetually wore, shooting her a look over them "—_cool_."

Ah, here came the puns on his name. Creselia often wondered why Frost was so keen of them, when he himself was as barren as a wasteland.

Just another of his odd quirks. It was one of his tamer ones.

…Someone like her, of all people, thinking of such a thought was rather ironic.

Creselia gave a small, dazed grin, as she kept listing off the quirks of both she and several people she knew. When she zoned back in to the ceremony, it was by a pointed pinch by Frost.

"It's wouldn't be _chill_ of you to not pay attention to our future Tributes," he murmured to her, his deep voice deathly quiet. She shot him a small smile, before her attention drifted back towards the Escort picking a name for the girls.

"Cerium Morgan," The Capitolite enunciated perfectly.

The first thing Creselia noted was the frantic male wail in the crowd of teens. It was quickly followed by the exclamations of two confused girls, and a rough "what the fuck?!" by another teenage boy. The entire reaction was wrapped up by the loud exclamations of an adult couple.

Family and friends of Cerium Morgan, no doubt.

It was surprisingly easy to lock eyes on the girl, if you knew where to look. The obvious indicator was the crowd of girls moving away from the brunette, despite being packed in their pen. There was also the sight of two teen boys shoving their way out of their sections and over to her, and how two girls were clinging onto the shocked Tribute.

The Peacekeepers started to mobilize, but Cerium was speaking frantically to the small group of teens that didn't seem to want to part with her. The Peacekeepers were almost upon them, before the four teens broke apart from the Reaped girl.

Cerium slowly, calmly walked towards the stage, the skirt of her teal dress swaying with every step she took. But Creselia could see the doubt swirling in those grey, innocent eyes, despite the calm facade.

The girl was in her later teen years—16—but she seemed so fragile and innocent…She had obviously lived a sheltered, soft life before this.

Once the girl was firmly on stage, Chartreuse Lefleur spent no more time in dawdling, and strode her way to the next glass bowl. In the most precise manner, she drew a slip, and returned to the microphone.

"Gavin Cox."

"At least she didn't have to deal with hard-to-pronounce names this year," Creselia noted benignly in a whisper to Frost. "She almost had a meltdown last year."

Frost merely gave a grunt, most likely intent on searching for the Reaped male within the crowd. It was hard to tell where exactly he was looking at, behind those shades of his. Not to mention, that he had a different vantage point, being so tall…

Creselia was startled by sudden movement near the back of the pens. A brunette boy that was nearly the height of Frost at a tall 6 or so feet burst from the section of 18 year olds.

Creselia watched, mesmerized, as Gavin Cox tried to make a run for it, obviously in a blind panic.

Gavin all but dove into the crowd of onlookers. It was easy to see his feather-like mop of hair weaving its way through the citizens, especially since he barreled a path through them. The boy was fortunate enough to reach the west edge of the crowd, before the Peacekeepers were upon him.

The next few seconds were rather impressive. Gavin managed to get in quite a few lucky hits on the white-uniformed men. She was sure that he broke a few noses and bruised a few eyes.

But then one Peacekeeper roared his name forcefully, standing right in front of him, and Gavin completely froze. The boy slumped, stance completely going slack, and nervously offered his palms up in surrender.

The man in front of Gavin waved away the others that formed a ring around the duo. The other Peacekeeper's hackles were still raised, but they slowly retreated into their previous positions, tense.

The lone Peacekeeper ended up marching Gavin up to the stage, the teen dragging his feet all the while. The boy lazily ascended the steps, stopping languidly next to the Escort.

His laidback manner was much more different than he was before, and an easy grin was even on his face. He also wore very casual clothes—a light grey shirt with white trim and some…pajama pants?

At least the outfit looked comfortable. The color scheme was rather close to Frost's Reaping attire, but Gavin's was obviously much less stuffy.

"Sorry about that," Gavin said sheepishly into the microphone, scratching the back of his neck. "Er…Muscle reflex?" he said lamely, giving an easy laugh, as if trying to completely disregard the fact that he fought more than a half dozen Peacekeepers single-handedly.

The entire crowd seemed to blink in utter disbelief, in synchronization.

"That seemed a bit too much for a simple muscle reflex!" Chartreuse squawked, her expression strained. The short woman looked ready to go off on a high-strung tangent about how the order and perfection of the Reaping had been ruined.

"What, _that_?" Gavin questioned innocently. "Pshaaaaw, that was nothing!" he exclaimed, giving a playful, dismissive swat of the air. "You should see me when I Panic at the Disco! I'm a total Fall Out Boy—but don't worry, there's never any Blood on the Dancefloor!"

The tall teen then burst into laughter, slapping his knee in mirth. The girl besides him began to giggle, and there were a few amused snorts in the crowd.

"Get it?" Gavin asked between laughter, a wide smile on his face. "Like the band names?"

"…Yes, I got it," the Capitolite admitted, looking like she wished she hadn't, because being amused at the joke would ruin her professionalism.

Gavin beamed, looking very proud of himself. He opened his mouth, looking ready to spew a few more languid jokes, before Chartreuse cut him off by ordering the Tribute to shake hands.

Gavin and Cerium smiled easily at one another, shaking the other's hand in a friendly manner, before the Escort quickly finished the ceremony and shooed them off the stage.

Creselia blankly watched the duo being escorted away by Peacekeepers. Gavin had double the amount, which included the specific Peacekeeper that had escorted him earlier.

"Now that was a _blizzard_ of a Reaping," the man besides her noted, sounding almost impressed.

"Mmmm, I enjoyed it," she agreed. "Chartreuse will be more frantic and nervous, however…"

The two trailed off to silence, both thinking deeply. Surprisingly, it was Frost that broke the silence once more.

"I want the boy," he stated firmly. "He tried to _fly the coop_—" he noted, glancing at her with his intense red eyes when he lowered his sunglasses, "but he's not a total _chicken_."

Creselia couldn't help it—she burst out laughing. "Making puns on a Tribute's name—now that's rare of you!"

The albino simply have a shrug. "He has great potential. Definitely a strong contender. It shouldn't be surprising that I chose him."

An amused smile unfurled on her lips. "I didn't question your reasoning for choosing him, Frost. I simply noted that you're already making puns on his name."

The man gave a grunt, looking pointedly away from Creselia. From how much emotion—or, rather, how **little**—Frost showed on a daily basis, she could tell that he was slightly embarrassed.

"You only want Gavin because he made puns," she stated knowingly. Frost neither confirmed or denied it, crossing his arms in a vaguely nettled manner.

But Creselia knows him better than he gives her credit for. She knows she's right.

She doesn't mind Frost picking his Tribute first. He does so every year, intent on Mentoring the stronger Tribute. The one with the better chances. The one that would need his extensive experience, and guidance.

Personally, she feels that this year, District Five has a strong pair of Tributes. They're simply strong in different ways, is all.

"I'll take Cerium, then," she told him, placating. "I liked how calm she was."

Frost gave 'hn' and a nod of his head. "A bit more thoughtful than the boy, I'll admit."

Creselia gave a small chuckle. If the usually cold Victor could already see the merits of both Tributes, then that meant good things for the future.

* * *

><p><strong>Gavin Cox, 18, D5<strong>

Gavin felt pretty damn awkward about the whole '_tried to run away, and then punched a lot of Peacekeepers in the face_' thing. That was a bad time for his impulsiveness to kick into overdrive.

It was especially awkward when his best friend's father had to confront him. Mr. Haycock was an intimidating man on regular days, stern and disapproving of his little Lindsey being best friends with a boy and disappearing with Gavin on a regular basis.

But when the man roared in Gavin's face to snap him out of his blind panic, he was even **more** terrifying than in any instance before. Because **damn**, Mr. Haycock did his job well.

"Er…Sorry again, Mr. Haycock," the tall teen mumbled. The man gave him a pointed, stern look.

"I did it for Lindsey's sake," he stated bluntly. "Her best friend getting beaten and detained, after the entire spectacle, would traumatize her needlessly."

"Uh…Right. Thank you for your, um, care of your daughter, sir," the brunette said, not knowing how to exactly answer that discouraging, blunt statement.

Soon enough, Gavin was unceremoniously shoved into a room in the Justice Building. It was fancy as hell. Gavin wondered if the entire building was like this, or if District Five only pimped out the rooms for the goodbyes to make themselves seem richer.

Probably. They had to keep up the illusion that their economy doesn't constantly fluctuate because he keeps winning so much at the casinos, and dispenses the wealth.

Gavin was brought out of his musings by his best friend's loud exclamation of "Hi, Daddy! Thanks for keeping Gavin out of trouble!" outside the room. Lindsey Haycock then burst through the door, barreling over to him.

"Oh my God Gavin what the fuck that was so cool do you even know how many people started bets the second you ran like holy hell," Lindsey babbled. Gavin gave a small laugh.

"Calm down there, Lindsey," he told her, waiting patiently until she did.

The blonde took a few deep breaths, before speaking again. "Well, at least you have about an hour or so per goodbye…"

"Yeah. Ah hour to see my parents would be nice," Gavin noted brightly, an excited smile on his face. His friend, however, bit her lip and looked guilty.

"Um…I don't think they'll be able to come, Gavin…" she said tentatively. Gavin felt both his smile and his hopes fall. "The managers of the power plants, The Dam, and all the other important places, they're really strict…"

"But I just got Reaped to go into the **Hunger Games**!" the brunette wailed, clutching his head. "I've only seen my parents **once** in the entire month! What in the everlasting fuck?!"

The boy felt like crying, when the realization that his parents couldn't come sunk in. He hadn't been too worried when he was Reaped, or when it was time to say goodbye. But his abandonment issues were definitely in full throttle when he learned that his own damn parents couldn't get off work to see their only child before he was shipped off to a death match.

Lindsey was quick to comfort the now emotionally turbulent boy.

Somehow, she soothed him enough that he completely forgot about his parents' absence. Since only she would be visiting, they took advantage of that, and she staid a good three or so hours with him.

"Here," she suddenly said, once her father had told the duo that Gavin would have to leave soon. She shoved a pack of cards into his hands. "You'll probably be able to use these better than me, anyways, Lucky Boy."

Gavin grinned at her, giving her a tight hug in appreciation for the Token. "Thanks, Lindsey. Love you."

"Love you too. Good luck—even if you won't really need it," she told him with a chuckle.

"I still appreciate it all the same," he told her fondly, ruffling her blonde hair. Mr. Haycock then entered the room, gruffly escorting him out of the Justice Building and towards the impressive-looking train.

* * *

><p><strong>Cerium Morgan, 16, D5<strong>

Cerium's goodbyes had gone well. If '_well'_ constituted '_wept constantly with her family and friends_'.

The goodbyes would have been even better if her sister was there. But Indium couldn't get time off work. The research facilities were very vital and hush-hush, and they were very strict, rarely allowing workers to take days off.

It was also probably the reason why Indium hadn't been able to visit their family in the past few months.

But still, it hurt that her older sister—the person she was closest to—wasn't able to even come visit her. Her younger sister that was going to be shipped off to the **Hunger Games**.

Cerium wept even harder when her loved ones were forcefully dragged from the room. Soon she was escorted out of the building, trying to wipe the constant stream of tears from her eyes.

Cerium's thoughts were scrambled and sluggish. She tried to think of **something** positive of the situation she was thrown in.

"At least I'll get to see what the Capitol's like," she muttered weakly with a sniff.

"That's the spirit!" exclaimed someone next to her, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. Cerium blinked, noting that she was standing in front of a large train, her District partner next to her.

She smiled gratefully up at the tall boy. "Thanks. I try to stay positive," she told him, quickly wiping the last of her tears away.

"Hey, me too!" he exclaimed, giving a bright smile down at her and a small shake of her shoulders. "That's good to know. I think we'll get along juuuust fine."

She thought so too. It was easy to see that Gavin was a good person, someone who tried to brighten up situations with his laidback, joking nature.

Maybe with someone like him as her District partner, things won't be so bad…

* * *

><p><strong>Sirona Minerals, Victor of the 2<strong>**nd**** Annual Hunger Games, D6**

Sirona awoke precisely at 5 in the morning, before realizing that today was the Reaping, and the ceremony was held at 11. She then decided to go work at the hospital anyways.

**Technically** no places of operation should be open on Reaping days, but that was a blatant lie. Hospitals and clinics were open 24 hours a day, in case of emergencies. The railroads and stations were always running, no matter the hour, because of their industry. The medical labs were run strictly by the Capitol, so good luck trying to close down the places of operation where the anti-age medications and such were created.

Besides, trying to find sleep after she became conscious would be fruitless. Especially on Reaping day. The guilt would gnaw at her and keep her awake. So it was much better to do something productive.

Sirona ended up working for about an hour or so before her cell phone started to buzz in her pocket. Usually she would ignore it, but right now it was a slow time at the hospital. Not to mention the fact that she didn't exactly have many reasons to **use** her cell phone, barring one: Marcus.

Sitting in a private alcove, Sirona opened her cell phone to see the message displayed on its screen, hoping that Marcus didn't decide to be proactive and do something harmful to himself.

'_It's Reaping day again. I don't…Kill me_.'

Sirona felt her heart clench, and decided to forgo messaging to call him instead.

Marcus, like some other of their fellow Victors, was very unstable during Reaping day. He never knew how to deal with his despair, barring himself in his home. He shut out as many people as he could, and the critical Riyo and uncaring Eshana weren't exactly helpful for his emotional burden.

Besides, she and Marcus had been inseparable since the day she became a guilt-ridden Victor. Despite the physical distance, they were there for another through just about everything. It was in the job description of being his inseparable-companion-slash-platonic-soul-mate to help him during one of his suicidal moments.

"Marcus?" she called into the speaker. "How early in the morning is it, in Two?"

Sounds of shuffling, before, "5 a.m."

"So you'll only have to wait 4 hours before the entire thing is over and done with," she tried to reason with him soothingly. "Just 4 hours. Remember, you don't have to go back. 4 hours, and you can lie on your couch and watch a movie. What movie would you want to watch?"

Deflection and distraction, a good tactic to try and get his mind on less darker subjects. Ever since he could, Marcus has been shutting himself away from his problems, so the thought of doing so would appeal to him.

"I don't know…" he muttered listlessly, sounding like he honestly didn't want to move or think whatsoever. A bad sign.

"Why don't you go see your collection of films, then?" she suggested, hoping that he'll at least move across his room to do so. "Maybe you'll find that perfect movie for later."

"Alright, fine…" he muttered. There came the sounds of creaking and shuffling, and a small grunt. "_Titanic_?"

"Marcus, that movie has beautiful music, but it's not the liveliest," she chided him softly. "Find one that's less dramatic."

"But it stars Leonardo DiCaprio," he argued, his voice sounding much less defeated and hopeless.

"Marcus, it makes both of us weep whenever we watch it," she stated blithely.

After a small debate on movies, Sirona managed to coax Marcus into getting ready. "After you get dressed, you can message me however much you need, alright? Just **please** don't plan on staying shut in your room and doing something stupid."

What followed was a long stream of messages, in which Sirona had to constantly convince Marcus that no, hurting himself won't get him out of attending the Reaping, lying listlessly won't keep him from getting dragged out of his home, and of course it was worth living.

That last point was always the one he debated heavily about, but she always managed to convince him to hold on a few more minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years.

After a few minutes of periodically checking her phone and helping organize the hospital, Marcus finally messaged her that he was making his way towards the Reaping.

'_You should hear how much Riyo's nagging us on how we habitually arrive five minutes before it starts_.'

'_It's better to be punctual_' she messaged back.

'_For what? I could recite every single speech and word ever uttered during the ceremony in my sleep. I know it by heart. Why can't I simply show up whenever the names get pulled?_'

Sirona paused. He was right. Most Victors could perfectly remember the speeches and Treaty of Treason after a few years.

'_It's unprofessional_?' she responded.

'_Now you're starting to sound like Riyo. Ha_.'

The stream of messages came nonstop from Marcus. Obviously, he was agitated by the ceremony, and simply wanted to take his mind off of it.

'_They're pulling the names right now…_ _Oh my God, Riyo's going to blow a fuse._'

'_What's going on?_' she messaged back, curious.

'_That was actually hilarious. Be sure to pay attention to D2's Reaping_' he responded a few minutes later.

'_What? What's so funny?_' she responded.

'_Some crazy adrenaline junky Volunteered in place of Riyo's chosen girl from the Academy. That's only half the problem. Look forward to it_,' he responded. Sirona could feel the amused half-smile behind the message.

'_I'm very curious now. Will do._'

The next time Sirona looked at the clock, she noted in a mild panic that the Reaping for Six had started. It seems like the entire staff had forgotten, and thusly she hadn't been warned.

'_D6 Reaping, message u back l8r'_ she tapped quickly on the small keyboard. She sent it, slid the keyboard back into the phone, and quickly rushed to the Square that would hold the ceremony.

Almost every year she was late, usually because she forgot the time and would be doing something else. Since she always came to the Reaping in her white doctor's coat with stethoscope and first aid bag, everyone assumed that she'd been helping out at the hospital. No one really blamed her for it—she had a very noble, taxing, important profession, after all.

Sirona arrived at her place near the end of the promotional video from the Capitol. The Escort—Tessa Trivault—gave her a wide smile of recognition, and waved enthusiastically. Sirona tried giving her a smile in return, but was embarrassed from how the green-haired woman was obliviously bringing more attention to the tardy Victor.

The blue-skinned Capitolite clapped her hands happily once the seal of the Capitol disappeared from the large screens littering the area. "Alllllright! And now, to Reap our Tributes!" she exclaimed peppily, pumping a fist in the air like a cheerleader.

"Ladiiiiiies first!" Tessa exclaimed, before literally bounding over to the glass bowls. She paid no attention to the fact that her short skirt almost flipped up and flashed the crowd.

Really, if the green-haired woman was going to run around with the energy of a teenager to match her looks, she should at the very least wear shorts. Being a hyper airhead on live television isn't safe if you wear short skirts.

The Capitolite woman returned to the microphone. "Calisto Cadbury! Ooooh, like the chocolate brand! Come on up here, honey bunny!"

Sirona gave an amused snort. The poor girl would probably be known as the 'chocolate bunny girl' now.

The lone Victor's eyes managed to find Calisto in the crowd of 16 year old girls. The thunderstruck expression and the fact that her peers were edging away from her made it easy to tell.

Wait, didn't that girl come in just last week to the hospital with a head wound, with two frantic friends…? Huh.

Calisto stood shocked for a few more moments, before she tries to play off the entire situation with a laugh. The olive-skinned girl bounds up to the stage, her ponytail of long, brown hair trailing behind her playfully.

The teen's clothing was practical; worn blue jeans and a sleeveless white shirt. She seemed like the type of person that was bursting with energy.

So essentially, the Escort could take a few notes on how to dress by Calisto. It was a miracle that Tessamalia hadn't flashed anyone onstage in the past 4 Reapings, or hadn't stepped and tripped on her shin-length hair.

"Ooooh, I feel like I'm really gonna like you!" The Capitolite noted happily. "Now for the gentlemen!"

The green haired woman grabbed a slip quickly, reading off the name enthusiastically. "Yohan Freesia! Yo, Yohan—come on up, you cool kid!" The woman giggled at her awful puns on the poor boy's name.

There came a dark chuckle, and the boys in the 16 year old male pen were stepping away warily from a chuckling Asian. Who then started to cackle dramatically like a villain in a movie.

The boy suddenly stopped mid-laugh, a look of contemplation on his face, before he stepped calmly towards the stage.

If the laughter and creepy smile weren't weird, there was also the boy's clothing. He wore a large, worn-out leather coat, a wide-rimmed hat, a tattered white shirt, and some dark jeans riddled with holes. He looked the cross between a punk and a suspicious individual who wanted to appear inconspicuous.

As the somewhat tall Asian ascended the stairs, Sirona noted that despite his shabby appearance, Yohan looked hygienic. His black hair was unkept, but seemed clean, his pale skin wasn't smudged with dirt, and despite the wear, his clothing looked cared for.

"Sorry about the evil laughter," he said awkwardly, a shady smile on his face. "I was trying to find out what reaction fit best to the situation. The '_evil mastermind cackle_' is unique, but I feel like it doesn't quite **fit**. I suppose you all find me **batty**, now."

Yohan then started to snicker, for whatever possible reason, before suddenly stopping, looking a bit insecure.

The blue-skinned woman wasn't bothered whatsoever by the oddities of the Asian. "You'll be fun to work with," she laughed. "Okay, Tributes, shake hands!"

Calisto turned to Yohan, sticking out her hand with a wide grin on her face. The boy tentatively held out his own and Calisto took it, pumping his arm enthusiastically. The boy looked away, befuddled, his pale complexion lightly flushing pink.

The two were then escorted away, and Sirona flipped open her phone to message Marcus.

'_My two Tributes seem very…interesting_' she typed. Maybe their oddities can help them. They certainly had potential.

Hopefully, things could finally come together. Hopefully, she could finally save a Tribute, so she won't have to Mentor alone another year.

* * *

><p><strong>Yohan Freesia, 16, D6<strong>

Yohan stared down at his right hand. The traditional shaking of the Tributes' hands was technically the first time he held hands with a girl who wasn't his sister or Avery.

It was…odd. Oddly nice, actually. He could now see why Kolo was a ladies' man.

Although, it's very likely that Calisto was taken, if the wailing of two boys when she was Reaped was of any indication.

Yohan was jostled out of his musings by a high-pitched wail. His little sister came barreling towards him, his friends Avery and Kolo hot on her heels.

Yohan barely had enough time to open his arms, before his 13 year old sister was hugging him fiercely, wailing hysterically into his coat. He tentatively rubbed her trembling back, still rather unused to the act of comforting her, despite how often she broke into panic attacks.

"Really bad luck for you to get Reaped, comrade," Kolo noted somberly, a serious expression that was out of place on his usually playful face.

Avery had a very worried look on her face. "Do you think this is because you…?" she trailed off, shooting a nervous glance at Kolo.

Realization dawned on him. Avery was wondering if this was over his unscrupulous methods of gaining an income, how he served justice upon the scum of the District. Kolo was still in the dark about Yohan's actions, so Avery obviously couldn't outright talk about Yohan's ambushes.

"Well, it's a possibility that it happened because of what my grandparents did in the War," he noted benignly.

At Lily's screech of horror from his statement, Yohan flinched, quickly adding, "But it's probably just pure chance! No need to worry, little sister. I'll make **sure** you aren't caught in the crossfire."

"Promise?" the girl whimpered, staring up at her older brother with wide, tear-filled brown eyes.

"Upon my honor, and our parents' grave—bless their souls in Heaven," he told the three seriously, dark eyes hard. "No one will **dare** hurt any of you. I **will** come back, as a bringer of justice."

Avery gave a strained smile, gently hugging the Freesia orphans. "I'll take care of Lily while you're gone."

"And I'll help when I can," Kolo added.

"Thank you," he told his two friends sincerely, before turning his attention to the blonde girl. "Avery, if you decide to take up my, ah, old job… Only do so as a last resort," he stated, voice grim. "You know where to find my tools if you need them. Be careful."

His little sister then started to frantically tug on his sleeve. He looked down at her panic-stricken expression. "B-But…"

"**Only** as a last resort. Just keep being a good little girl, like you've been," he told his fretful sister. Lily nodded meekly. She knew what to do; be careful, be quiet, lie about his whereabouts, don't gain any attention. And most importantly—**don't** reveal where he hid the bodies.

Before the 2 hour slot was up, Lily Freesia shoved a wristband into his hands. It held a wood heart she'd carved. "For your Token," she said, voice quavering.

Yohan was unable to properly thank her and give the three one last hug goodbye. Peacekeepers took that moment to burst into the room in a swarm, dragging the trio away, Lily shrieking hysterically.

Yohan leapt to his feet, snarling furiously, and charged at the Peacekeepers. "Get your hands off of her!"

The boy was easily held back by the white uniformed men. His malnourished frame was no match for the hulking adults. He struggled vainly in their iron grips, spitting vile curses.

The last thing he saw was his two friends and sister getting handcuffed, before he was sedated.

* * *

><p><strong>Calisto Cadbury, 16, D6<strong>

Theodore and Luna Cadbury were the first people to all but break through the door in order to cling to her and cry.

It was heartbreaking. Her mother seemed so strong, having been the main breadwinner and leader of their little family. Her father was always jovial, and so much like Calisto herself, being the biggest influence in her life when she grew up.

They slathered her in encouragement and love, but they were making her restless. Whenever her parents told her to come back, she tried lying for their sakes, but she was a god-awful liar.

So the two left their daughter feeling like this would be the last time they saw her.

Then Calisto's two best-friends-slash-boyfriends burst into the room, hugging her and wailing.

"I told you, bro! I told you she was gonna die!" Gavin Hafen wailed, shoving her head into his chest.

"What the fuck are we even supposed to do without you?!" Eirik Mackery exclaimed, clinging to her other side like a koala, face buried in her stomach.

"Boys. Boys, please," Calisto muttered weakly, feeling her eyes sting, trying to calm the two down enough so they could spend the rest of the hour at least somewhat coherently.

Which was a moot point. The hour was spent with the three of them crying and telling how they loved each other. Lots of hugs and smooches were included.

When she was escorted towards the train, she felt like her soul was being painfully ripped apart. She's never been away from either her family or friends, before. She felt like she couldn't properly function without any of them by her side.

Calisto stepped on the platform of the largest train station in the District. At least a dozen trains were about, of many different colors. Some were sleek and ran on electricity, some blew steam, some held many large carts to tote materials.

Calisto whipped her head around, trying to find her District partner. She felt alarmed when a group of Peacekeepers marched over, the Asian boy carried between them, unconscious.

"What the hell did he do to get knocked out?" she wondered aloud, eyes wide. That was…really interesting, actually. Only those who acted out got sedated.

Maybe he was a bit of a daredevil too?

If he was, that would be pretty cool. Maybe they could team up. It would certainly help fill in the empty space, where one or more of her loved ones would usually be.

She couldn't let that opportunity go to waste.

Calisto nodded to herself. Even if things felt like they were unraveling at the seams, she could still try to make them come together.


End file.
